


Endless Possibilities

by heylittleriotact



Series: Endless Possibilities [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Blood Magic, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fix-It, Hope, Lucid Dreaming, NSFW, Post-Trespasser, Single chapter of self harm which will be appropriately noted, Slow Burn, So much angst, Somniari, Spirits, Trespasser DLC, Weird trippy magic stuff, Work In Progress, absurdly slow burn, character death but like... not really, forecasted eighty percent chance of smut, post-DLC, probably canon divergent regarding how magic works, there are spoilers here, wolfhunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-27 05:01:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 30
Words: 91,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5034790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heylittleriotact/pseuds/heylittleriotact
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*** Chapters 1- 4 have been EDITED/UPDATED/EXPANDED as of 06 April 2016***</p><p>The beauty of free will is that it is as dangerous as it is liberating. The fact that she is most certainly dying is a good enough reason to put that theory to the test as well as push the boundaries of what is and isn't possible in this world. This suits her just fine; friends don't let friends leap off of towers with wax wings on sunny days. </p><p>Add in a number of complicated feelings regarding the man she knew as Solas, and it's clear that El'una Lavellan is bound to attract some attention during the course of her swan song. Whether it's wanted or not is something she's going to have to deal with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

“I’m sorry, serah, I believe I misheard you.”

“You didn’t. I would like fifty.”

The kennel master wrung his hands nervously, his eyes darting away nervously from those of his client. “I am so sorry, miss, but there’s no way I can breed that many in such a short time. Only got four bitches haven’t I?”

“I will take as many as you have immediately ready to part from their mothers, then. The rest I will come for when they are ready.” The woman reached within the folds of the dark cloak that rested over her shoulders. Fingers found the weighty bag of gold at her right hip and she worried at the leather thongs that held it in place. The kennel master found it odd that she would not simply reach across with her left hand. “For your services.” She said, transferring the sack to his own awaiting palm.

“If I may ask,” the man said, peering into the sack with a well-contained expression of relief, “Most are happy with only a few pups. I heard about the Inquisition dissolving -- that’s right, I know who you are. What nags to be answered is this: what need have you of fifty wolfhounds?”

“I have developed a problem with a particular wolf.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ** Updated 30 March, 2016 **  
> \- Added new content  
> \- Amended narrative, spelling and grammar

Harding looks up as the door to the hut opens and scrambles to put away the contents of the fletching kit she has spread around her: Feathers are jammed into a pouch and twine is hastily wound and stored; absently Harding acknowledges that when she pulls it out again, it’ll likely emerge as one giant knot.

She wipes at her forehead with the back of her arm, pushing soaked strands of hair off her face as a bare-faced elf stalks towards her, cloak swaying around her legs despite the rain. A familiar chiming sound cuts through the sound of the wind as the elf moves closer and finally passes by Harding. The jingling of small chains and random acouterments fades with each step the woman takes further away, but rises over the wind again as she hoists herself onto the back of her horse with one hand. Water and mud drip from the bare soles of her feet, but she does not seem to notice, and if she does, she makes no indication that she cares.

Slinging her bow over her back, Harding follows suit, untying her bay pony from the post it was lashed to and settling into the cold, wet leather of the saddle. The creature nickers in surprise as Harding’s weight squishes some rain water out of the saddle blanket and over its flanks. Harding pats the animal on the neck and shushes it with the gentle promise of a good currying and some dry oats back at camp before easing her heels into the side of the pony and trotting after El’una Lavellan’s own buckskin mare.

El’una, not being much for words these days, completes the journey back to the camp in silence; Harding doesn’t push it - El’una was never one for small talk, but in recent months, Harding gets the impression that the former Inquisitor isn’t solemn for lack of caring, rather, she seems to be constantly absorbed in thought more often than not. She sees it in her eyes sometimes; a detached, absent stare as she goes about tasks that suggest she’s more or less completing them by memory alone while her mind focuses its energy on working through some other, more pressing task.

The battered tents of the camp come into view and with a _tsk_ , El’una urges her horse along faster, leaning forward in the saddle and closing the distance quickly. Upon entering the camp, her reins are passed off to a waiting stable-hand and the elf slides from the back of her mount, wasting no time cutting through the dark, muddy camp and entering her own tent.

“I was recognized again.” El’una mutters, pulling her glove off with her teeth and shaking raindrops from her hair onto the bearskin rug beneath her feet. “The Inquisition disbanded over half a year hence and I am still unable to conduct affairs discreetly.”

Harding draws the tent flaps behind her as she follows El’una into the warm, dry space. “Well you were the most powerful woman in Thedas for two years. People don’t forget things as easily as you think they do.”

El’una comes to rest before the simple mirror in the corner of the tent and shrugs out of her cloak, wiping the rain from her face that had collected on her final sprint to the camp. “I don’t look anything like I used to. I was always under the impression that The Inquisitor was an icon, not a face.” Fingers brush over hollows and lines that lend truth to her statement. She isn’t an old elf by any stretch, but there is no denying that she is no longer on the upswing of what gifts youth had to offer. Harding watches as the woman squints at the dark circles that linger under her eyes.

There is an awkward period of silence that is all too common these days. Harding is accustomed to an Inquisitor who readily offers a smile and an encouraging anecdote, makes some sort of allusion to a flipped card, and tackles a problem without hesitation. She supposes she can hardly blame El’una for her morbidity. After all, the woman had been an accomplished sorceress prior to losing her arm. Honestly, she still is: Much of the past few months has been spent as a period of extreme self-preservation in the face of betrayals from what seems like every direction. El’una may be of little use in physical combat anymore, but Harding has seen enough of the woman’s talent with curses that don’t require swords and staves to know that the elf remains a cunning and palpable threat to those who would oppose her.

The only problem is that curses take time, and those who would oppose her are aware of this.

Harding knows that El’una is well aware that she has very much evolved into someone else since The Exalted Council: Flat of spirit, lacking of cheer; overly practical and uncharacteristically cynical, it doesn’t take the speculation of a thousand Orlesians to conclude correctly that Solas, his actions, and their resulting consequences had left a negative impact on the mage that was once full of life. She knows it; they know it,  and regardless of what Solas did, the former Inquisitor isn’t content to sit around crying into her tea about it, though at times, Harding might wish that she would, if only to momentarily break the tragic ebb of bitter desperation that seems to have won over El’una’s disposition.

“Bah. Enough talk like that, serah.” She interjects, relieved when her words pull El’una’s familiar glazed stare away from the mirror. “How did the meeting go? There was no trouble around here while you away. Well… there are isolated pockets of bandits roaming the plains, but they’ve kept a safe distance.”

“I need to know if they’re a threat, or are liable to become one. If they are, we ride tonight.” El’una states, uncaring of the blatant paranoia implied by the statement. She doffs the soaking cloak on the back of a chair and sits at her desk. Harding has seen enough injuries in the ranks to know that El’una still subconsciously clenches fingers and muscles that no longer exist at the thought of danger. She considers herself lucky that she has an adequate guard to work with in the event of attackers, but isn’t foolish enough to think that herself and her small company of protectors are a match for an onslaught in the dead of night. El’una, once a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield with her staff and magically imbued elven blade, is no longer capable of wielding such things, and as such makes for a poor warrior. Dagna had been working on options that would allow El’una to spellcast with the efficiency of a staff, but thus far has been fruitless: Resources are difficult to come by when one no longer heads up an international organization.

“Charter and I are taking watch tonight; two heads are better than one, right? You need to rest.” Harding implores, tightening a strap on one of her gauntlets. “If it makes you feel better, we’ll pull some extra scouts and archers to patrol the edge of camp. I’ll even have a guard posted outside your tent.”

El’una shakes her head.”It’s a shame that Bull and his men left. Hang having a guard outside of my tent - Bull could be sitting by the fire by himself getting shitfaced and that alone would deter any bandits with unsavory aspirations. An extra patrol will suffice.” She decides. “The meeting was a success.” She changes the subject and waves her remaining hand over the bank of candles on the desk, a small and genuine smile coming to her face when diminutive flames gutter obediently into life at the simple motion: The first time she had tried this she had blasted a smouldering hole through the wall of the tent. Magic is unruly and difficult to control when it isn’t focused through a staff, but she seemed well aware that unless she could find a way to grow a new arm, she’d have to find an alternative. “Have Charter send word to Skyhold that pups will be arriving within a fortnight. We’ll depart in the morning: I am not well liked here, and I think it would be best to make ourselves scarce before the Arl’s men learn that I’m nearby. ”

As she speaks, El’una’s hand trails absently through the air.  The movement attracts Harding’s gaze and she can’t help but imagine each curve and gentle twitch of fingers indicates there is actually something there; unseeable, but tangible. The bare-faced Dalish lightly closes her hand into a fist and the candles behind her are bereft of life. Harding shivers, feeling much colder than the she had a moment ago.

“Besides, I would hate for Teagan to get in his head that I have plans to conquer the city.” El’una notes with an uncharacteristic bitterness, turning her back to Harding, and staring at the candles. With a flick they return once again to life. “Goodnight, Lace.”

Reluctant to leave the clearly pained Inquisitor, Harding pulls aside the tent flap. She suspects there’s more going on in El’una’s mind than the loss of a limb - sure, the mark might be gone, but she can’t help but wonder if the elvhen magic was completely removed. “Goodnight, your worship. Try and… sleep well.” She tries to keep her voice friendly, but can’t seem to conceal the concern that underlays her farewell.

“Aye.” Comes the quiet reply from El’una, and taking her cue to leave, Harding emerges into the gentle hiss of the rain. She crosses the camp, stopping intermittently at other tents in order to rouse the scouts and archers she promised El’una: Morale is low as it is, and depriving the forces of sleep isn’t going to make it better, but Harding has to agree with El’una’s line of reasoning: She certainly feels a lot more exposed sitting in the middle of an open plain without a powerful mage to protect them.

Orders issued, she finds her way to a seat by the covered fire that Charter has built and digs out a hard roll from her pack.

“All went well for the Inquisitor then?” Charter asks, joining Harding by the steaming heat.

“You know she doesn’t like being called that anymore.” Harding points out: For as many times as she’s tried to remind El’una that the Inquisition was a force of good in the world, the Dalish woman has made it abundantly clear that she does not consider her leadership and triumph over Corypheus a victory.

“Ugh! Blast it all if I don’t keep fucking forgetting!” Charter hisses. “Hard to help it though, innit? That’s who she was for three years. Easy to forget that she had a life and a story before all this.”

“Yeah.” Harding agrees, glaring through the rain at El’una’s tent as she works the tough texture of the roll around in her mouth. Few words are shared between the two scouts as they watch the bolstered patrol arm themselves and file into the darkness.

There’s no lightning tonight, only a steady, rhythmic glow from within El’una’s tent as candles are lit and snuffed just as quickly: A warm heartbeat in a disheartening place. Every now and then the rain lets up just enough for Harding to hear a steady stream of elven being murmured beyond the walls.

She wonders what it means - it lasts all night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, guys.
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/heylittleriotact)
> 
>  
> 
>  


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ** Updated 04 April, 2016 - Previous Chapter 2 has been moved to Spes Arcana  
> \- Amended narrative  
> \- Added additional content, plot, characterization

There is no room argument or delusion; this is her life now.

Boiled down in the simplest of terms with the richest emotions and the sharpest of hurts stripped away, she is nothing more than a woman alone, with an absurd reality facing her. She is an insect struggling tirelessly at the glass walls that trap it: She is no evanuris. She is well aware that she is no ancient elf, gifted with immortality and a connection to the Fade that would easily surpass all but her wildest of dreams: She is an elf of this age, mortal, fragile, easily broken, and connected to the Fade only so far as his wall will allow - his jar.

Her dreams are a perpetual rhythm, manifesting broadly across the Fade - little more than a pulsing, dissonant chant; a susurrus of disjointed reasoning accompanied by hours upon hours of candles bursting to life and being extinguished just as quickly as she slumbers with her face pressed against the same table she dreams of, small streams of wax likely edging closer to her with each passing minute that she unknowingly continues her labour: This is all she dreams of lately.

She no longer seeks a wolf during her dreaming, as she did for a time after his departure: Her nights were spent wandering the Fade, using her rudimentary Dreaming skills as she roamed the countryside and slept in the most familiar places; varying rooms in Skyhold, the clearing at Crestwood, the dawn-soaked shore of a misty morning pond in the Exalted Plains. Against his better judgement, he couldn’t help but keep her in his line of sight during this time. More than once he had gently warded away a spirit who, drawn by El’una’s despair, ventured too close to her pocket in the Fade for comfort.

It was only after she noticed his presence that he forced himself to stop visiting her dreams in secret and she abandoned herself to the sort of unfiltered, hands-off Dreaming that most were prone to.

He no longer puts himself in her line of sight: She no longer wastes her time seeking him.

Despite their seemingly mutual resignation to stay out of each other’s way, he does find himself observing her casually since the nature of her dreams changed so drastically to what they are now: Indomitable focus indeed, he surmises, as a he lurks on the edges of her dream: It’s clear to see that she is no longer using Dreaming as an escape, or a tool to find him; instead she simply seems to be making the most of time spent sleeping, as he’s sure she makes the most of it while awake.

He understands the bittersweet, but misplaced sense of pride he feels at the fact that not only are the flames she continuously creates strong - they are warm as well. Creating the visual essence of something in the Fade is one thing. Smaller, subtler, but no less potent - senses such as touch, taste and scent are far more difficult to create accurately. There had been discussions between them about such things, but her success belongs solely to herself: He can take no credit for her growth.

Solas feels a distant pang of regret as he watches her toil in her dreams for something that she surely toils for just as aggressively in waking as well: Confidence. Of all the things that he robbed her of, this is easily the one which causes him the most guilt; El’una, while not prodigiously talented by the standards of the People, nor by the definition of modern Circle mages, had possessed a unique and adaptable magical strategy; he has no doubt that she can still cast curses capable of crippling thousands, but her days of swordsmanship and staff-wielding are certainly over - although he cannot help but wonder if that makes her more dangerous in light of the diligence she demonstrates in her dreams: What she is doing with this nightly doldrum is abundantly clear to him - El’una Lavellan is not and never has been a woman content with being _less._

People in this world… mages, require a channeling instrument such as a stave in order to efficiently shape the Fade to their will. Where it was once as simple as breathing, magic now called for an absurd amount of will, effort and focus behind it in order for it to align with its intent. In the time of the Inquisition he was capable of connecting enough with the Fade such that he could move heavy objects and cast veilfire without the aid of a staff, but even those things; comparable to parlour tricks, were tiring and required a profound amount of energy and concentration where there once was a time when they might have been accomplished with little more than a thought. El’una appears to be conditioning herself mentally to function at some level without a staff.

Her indecipherable chant continues and though he can’t understand her words, he is reminded of singing and he turns then, to abandon her to her nightly ritual in peace: He has nothing to fear from her, despite her determination: An insect with a thick exoskeleton and venomous stings will still be bound by glass despite its instinctive aspirations of escape. She poses no threat to his ends further than the boundaries that sentimentality allow. It is easier and more comforting to attribute her tireless efforts at this point to survival rather than to plotting: El’una is ambitious, and exceptionally creative, but she is not foolish. Content with the beguiling thought, he moves on, a phantom ready to vanish back into the Fade until snatches of El’una’s overheard words give him pause: After thousands of years of practice in the art of feigning complete disinterest in nearly anything, there are few things that can stop him completely in his tracks.

“ _It is cracked… it is cracked… it is cracked…_ ”

The candles go out.

“ _It is cracked, I have done it. It has told me so… it is cracked.”_

The sky? It cannot be. Scarred yes, but no longer ‘cracked’ in any sense of the word: El’una had irrefutably taken care of that. No, she speaks of something else to the darkness, and a deliberate silence hangs between her words; she does not rock in her chair like a madwoman, so this behaviour is not indicative of a breaking of the mind. Tangible proof illuminates him as fire erupts around the wicks of the candles once again.

“ _-cracked, it is cracked, I have cracked it_.”

Words in elvhen; an indistinct hiss that seems to be entirely rent from purpose itself and have little care for graceful annunciation: This is old magic, he knows. The words that are spoken matter little; words change over time, and where a word meant one thing one year, in a hundred it had the potential to shape to a different interpretation. Words are fickle. It is _how_ they are spoken that lend them power. He wonders if she is even aware that she’s doing it, more troublingly he wonders where she came across such secrets.

The question is left unanswered for now: With a motion, the vision of El’una rises from her seat, skirts and fine chains singing together as they always have, though now their orchestra is rounded out in full by the perfectly balanced hum of her voice and the obedient tendrils of flame that seem inclined to follow in her wake. Her feet settle and her shoulders square for only a moment and he wonders if she pauses because she has seen him. The charms of her familiar raiment resolve in the song and her skirts still around bare legs.

She stares into the darkness for longer than anyone normally would, and if she did in fact see him, she gives away no further outward indication of it. She turns her back to the darkness again, and he exhales the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding as El’una rests her arm on the back of the chair and bends at the waist, placidly conducting the thin streams of fire that wave gracefully through the air like tendrils of seaweed at the bed of a clear lake. He sees her left foot tip-tapping out a rhythm on the dark ground with muddy toes.

He decides it is most definitely time to leave: This may be nothing more than a happy dream, or fanciful hope, but if it is not and her determination has granted her this level of control, he knows that he ought to start taking her promise of interference seriously. Of course he had from the start, but is ashamed at the realization that he may have severely underestimated the spirit of this woman.

He turns and leaves successfully this time, retreating to a remote but beautiful portion of the Fade where the sky does not look unlike the sea when the moonlight dances upon it.

Humility visits him, unbidden, under the ocean-sky; less gleaming and prismatic than most spirits, it is comparable to the infinite particles of dust that pass through a sunbeam; admirable and halcyon if looked at in just the right way, but easily overlooked from another angle - Downright irritating if it happens to be coating everything within sight.

“It is admirable to admit apprehension _._ ” It promises with such relaxed confidence that he almost believes the characteristically meek spirit. It spreads through a beam of silver skylight and around his back, drifting back and forth like a handful of grass tossed about on the surface of a pool of water. He bites the inside of his cheek and swallows his mild annoyance: Humility brings fair counsel and selfless ideas. What is there to spurn within such things? Likely the fact that it is right, he assumes. He did not savour finding doubt within himself because of El’una, and he has not since savoured the realization that she is pursuing every effort to make good on her promise to him at their last parting.

“Whence have you arrived at such a conclusion that apprehension has any bearing on the outcome of this matter?” The self-forsaken wolf asks, choosing his words carefully.

Humility creeps non threateningly into another pillar of moonlight as if afraid it might offend it. “It showed her where the cracks are. It hasn’t bothered with anything like that in… well… now that I think of it, I actually don’t have an answer; before I ever came to be, I would assume.” It admits this unassumingly, looking at him as well as it can what with its lack of discernable eyes. Where eyes might normally be found on an amorphous collection of particles, he thinks he sees something apologetic… pity? Shame for not having a more concrete answer?

“You speak of another spirit.” He observes. “A spirit is helping her; it showed her where the cracks are in whatever it was she spoke of… or created them. Do you know of whom you speak?”

The spirit hums softly, causing the liquid sky to ripple gently overhead. “I must admit that I don’t, though it is uncomfortable to do so - I feel as if I know it, and I dare to go as far as guessing that you know it too, Pride: It’s very old. But if you are to take responsibility for all else, you may as well take responsibility for the spirit and its cracks, yes?” Humility shrugs its particulous shape, communicating an unspoken apology for taking so much understanding from his presence alone. “At least you accept that it is because of you that she had to be shown the cracks to begin with, and I get the distinct impression that you know that she’s done as well as she has despite you, not because of you. That’s encouraging: I believe it to be a good start. Don’t you?” It supposes before bobbing upwards into the silver and black sky, disappearing from his sight. “And they say spirits can’t learn…” He hears it murmuring as it goes off to wherever it is needed next.

He closes his eyes and sighs deeply, attempting to push the image of the chanting mage conducting subordinate flame from his mind. Further troubling than the persistent image, is Humility’s suggestion that El’una has found something, or rather, something has found her in the Fade and it is keen on ‘helping’ her. He tries and fails to convince himself that what he witnessed and heard was but a dream; a fleeting moment of fancy and freedom where nothing is impossible. “I know.” He even speaks aloud, clinging to the purpose behind his own words. Despite his effort though, the nagging thought that he is once again responsible for whatever cracked thing El’una and Humility mentioned follows him through Dreaming for the rest of the night.

He decides that he will be happy if he does not see Humility again for a very long time. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ** Updated 06 April 2016  
> \- Amended plot, characterization  
> \- Additional content added

Stale remnants of curious dreams blunder in and out of her mind the following morning and she feels exhausted upon waking, yet El’una finds that she is inexplicably lighter of heart than she had been when she fell asleep, her face resting on the surface of the desk she sat at. Upon her rising, the camp is disassembled, a quick, simple breakfast is had, and the modest faction of loyal elves, dwarves and humans sets out to return to Skyhold. 

El’una finds delight in the clear blue morning and in the playful young hounds nipping gently at the heels of her courser as the party follows the roads through the valley. The twenty three pups they left with gambol around the small company of travellers with an ease that surprises her: They demonstrate little apprehension, and appear outwardly to be willing and glad participants in this grand new adventure they are partaking in. It is difficult to be sour with multitudes of frolicking gray, fluff falling about the trails, not yet used to their own stringy legs and heavy paws.

She resolves that she is pleased with her decision, as she pats the neck of her horse. With the Inquisition dissolved and Solas’ admittance of his people’s infiltration into her ranks, trusting people became a luxury that she could afford to dispense with faith and unwarranted trust. Those who remained at her side were her closest and most trusted; members of the Inquisition whom she had either interacted with personally, or had researched extensively. Everyone else was expunged from Skyhold and her life within a week of her return from The Winter Palace. 

The decision to acquire a large quantity of dogs was inspired by the bond that Ferelden humans share with Mabari: Canines are creatures bred from wolves, though they possess traits that seem to bind them uniquely to people in a way that no other creature possesses: Hounds are loyal - she has little to fear of duplicity from a dog. Apart from the obvious benefit of such a partnership, they’re enormous when fully grown; intimidating: measuring up to almost her shoulder while standing on all four paws. She’s fond of that. Call it her propensity to seek meaning and patterns in life that would often cause Solas to impress on her that she can’t keep making symbols out of nothing - she figures she has spent enough time being a symbol to know that they hold immense power, and owning a herd of dogs bred specifically for the purpose of hunting down wolves sends a powerful message. 

Harding crashes through some bush parallel to the trail, mounted on her own stout pony. The hound nearest to El’una perks up its ears and utters the smallest “boof!” At the commotion. El’una reins in her startled horse: The efficiency of the scout never ceases to amaze her. 

“Elves.” Harding informs El’una, who urges her horse a bit to the side so she can share the trail with Harding. “Roughly three hundred meters ahead.” 

El’una sighs quietly and flips her reins. “Marked?” Harding nods and El’una shifts in her saddle to look at the stream of scouts and soldiers behind them; they number in the mid thirties - there’s no chance of quietly sneaking past the clan. “Is there any chance of skirting them?” She asks anyway. 

“Not unless you want to double back and skirt the entire forest. That’ll add at least a day to our journey though, and I’m afraid these pups are still too young for a run of that length.” As she says this she lobs a few pieces of salted meat on the ground and the pups closest swarm the scraps eagerly. 

El’una racks her brain, considering the time of year and knows it to be mid-Cloudreach by Ferelden reckoning. Local farmers have had their crops seeded for just over a month now and trappers and woodsmen in the area are likely still wary to enter the woods for fear of encountering any territorial creatures protecting their young. Summerday is upcoming, and nearby settlements are preparing for feasts, marriages and celebrations - trade burgeons during  this time of year for the Dalish clans willing to brave the woods that shems would not. Her own clan - more purveyors of potions, tinctures and healing - typically stayed clear of the outback of Ferelden during Cloudreach, travelling instead to the Free Marches where most of the coastal flora was well in bloom and at the prime time to be picked and utilized. 

Considering what she recalls of clan movement, she drags her teeth across her lip and returns her gaze to Harding. “It’s most likely clan Sabrae.” 

“Is… is that a good or bad thing?” Harding ventures uncertainly. 

El’una rifles around in the pouches at her belt for a few moments before answering. “Depends on how they’re feeling today, I suppose. I happen to know that they’ve had their own unpleasant encounters with eluvians in the past - depending on how willing they are to listen, that could either work in our favour, or work against us.” 

“Against us.” Harding repeats flatly; she heaves a sigh of her own now. “I’ll tell the men to be at attention.” She moves to urge her horse back up the path but pauses. “If you want, me and Charter could approach first. Not a big deal, right? We’re just a small group of refugees seeking passage.” 

“With almost thirty wolfhounds?” El’una replies, raising an eyebrow. “A difficult sell I think: We hardly resemble a travelling circus, and I make for a poor ringmaster.” 

Harding shrugs, “Our kennel was hit by an errant fireball during all of the fighting between the mages and templars. That useless Inquisition never did anything to help us, so now we are left to roam from city to city, seeking work where we can find it. Maker, I’d like to give a piece of my mind to that Inquisitor. Or the sharp end of my knife...” She mutters darkly. “Can’t you just say you’re from the city?” 

El’una shakes her head, unable to keep a thin smile from spreading across her lips despite the nausea that is rapidly overtaking her. “I would buy it, Harding.” She says, “I doubt they will. I’ve had dealings with the Sabrae clan in the Marches before; even without my vallaslin, I’m certain they’ll recognize me: I intend to use that fact to my advantage.” The words sound foreign to her ears as they leave her lips; she hasn’t seen him in over six months. It’s been nearly three years since she could find him in a warm, windowless room; safe, solid… present. Even though the later conversations had in that particular room were not happy ones, it occurs to her then that she has more than successfully hardened the soft parts up: She didn’t know how else to get rid of them; three years felt like yesterday, and yesterday felt like being in love. Time has become a strange and unreliable thing, it seems. 

The cruelest piece of advice she had ever received more than stuck, and a comfortable sense of detachment reminds her of this, filling the gaps between the twist in her gut: He may have robbed her of an arm, a future, her culture, and her own heart, but this wouldn’t be the first time she’s wondered if he failed to comprehend the consequences of doing such a thing at the time. 

She squeezes her heels into the sides of her horse and the beast takes off at a gentle trot into the winding path of trees while El’una inwardly chants a simple mantra: I am not the Inquisitor, I am not the First of clan Lavellan. I am not the Herald of Andraste: I am alone, and I am dangerous for that fact. 

A tattered memory of a dream from the previous night flutters unbidden through her subconscious again and for a brief moment she is overwhelmed by the age of the wood around her before the sensation disappears altogether, vanishing before she can comprehend it and focus on it properly. Unsettled, but still focused, she pushes on until the canopy of trees above her slowly gives way and the path bends into a small clearing. Despite being uncomfortably aware of the fact that if she were to find herself forced into a defensive position, she may only be able to singe somebody’s eyebrows off, she steadies her breathing and studies her surroundings.

The elves have the clearing well covered: There are at least four archers that she can see, and she supposes there are at least two more are tucked away in the trees. The faces that she can see bear the varied markings of clan Sabrae. Subconsciously, she shifts her cloak closer over her left side, instinctively covering the weakness a lost limb implies. As she does this, she dismounts from the horse rather gracelessly, but manages to land on her feet and keep a firm hold on the reins, positioning herself by the horse’s face so that most of her left side is protected by the broadness of the animal: If she learned anything in her time travelling and sparring with Bull, it was that getting cocky about your own blind spots and hobbles was an open invitation for foes to take advantage of them. Behind her, she hears the sound of small twigs cracking under settling hooves and knows that her companions have come to a halt. Puppies pour into the clearing, rolling in leaves and sniffing the hunters who look more befuddled that frightened by the terrible beasts. They are lovely, she decides, but it will be nice when they are a bit bigger.

She greets her kin in the traditional Dalish manner, bowing her head only slightly before continuing in elven. “My company and I wish only safe passage through the woods.” She knows this hunter; Junar, is his name. Memory reminds her that at the time of their previous meeting, she found him to be a bit petulant, but still good of heart: In all fairness, clan Sabrae was stranded in the Marches for a maddeningly long time - long enough to make anybody short of temper. Then again, she supposes in hindsight that offering him a reading in an attempt to bring him some cheer might not have helped much either. 

The elf, tall and broad for his people steps forward at her address, fingers absently rosining the strings of a wickedly curved bow. He does not look over her face unkindly, but there is a guarded quality that dwells somewhere in his angular features that puts El’una at unease regardless: Just as she recognised him with but a glance, she is certain that he has done the same for her. 

“I heard your company approaching,” The elf admits, “But I was not expecting the First and Last of clan Lavellan to enter our midst.” He blinks slowly, calmly: El’una does not overlook the fact that Junar did not see fit to return her greeting.

“I’m told of late that no one expects The Inquisition anymore.” El’una quips lightly, injecting her curious brand of levity into the situation.

The hunter sets the bow against the trunk of a tree, lidding the container of rosin. Somewhere in the trees El’una thinks she can hear the gentle creaking of bowstrings being slackened. “The Inquisition, yes. The Inquisitor herself in our midst.” The hunter drawls. “What an honour we hunters have been treated with today.” His eyes leap from an uncomfortably intent stare at her unmarked face and over her shoulder to the company behind her, and then back to her. “You appear to have misplaced your vallaslin, da’len.” He notes casually. “An interesting thing to lose: One cannot help but wonder how it happened. Did Falon’Din see fit to let the blood writing die with the rest of clan Lavellan? Or perhaps there’s another explanation behind this miraculous transformation?”

“I decided I didn’t need a permanent reminder that I’m an adult etched onto my face in order to act like one. It’s a simple spell that any mage is capable of; I could show you if you like.” She retorts, tiring of this game and smiling rather meanly. “It’s plain that you know who I am, Junar; we’ve met before. Shall we drop this facade of veiled questions and be civil with each other?”

Feigned confusion pulls at the hunter’s face and he cocks his head, ignoring the pup that has stood up against his knee and began slobbering on his fingers. “I’m not certain, First and Only of clan Lavellan - if we do not give you what we want will you choose the shems over us and send us to our demise? I’ve heard you favour them. Is that why you shed your vallaslin? To be more like them?” Junar’s nose wrinkles.

She feels her jaw tightening; personally, she’s almost glad that her clan was wiped out; at least they don’t have to live with knowing what happened to the First that they had so much faith in. Junar, however, clearly doesn’t see things from such a perspective, and is making no secret of it. “Clan Lavellan is gone.” She whistles sharply and her pup bounds from the hunter’s legs and obediently comes to sit at her side. “It wounds my heart every day that I was unable to save them, but I would certainly think they would appreciate my efforts to manage the current and far more threatening issue that has been awakened on our doorstep. I’m uncertain if my suspicion of poor rapport between us goes back to the distant time when I tried to brighten your day and you rebuked me, or if it is because you have found some other reason to take personal issue with me. I’ve asked once plainly, but I will ask again; let us drop the facade around our meeting.”

“Do I take personal issue with you?” The hunter asks, a rhetorical coolness now edging the haughtiness of his voice. The jar of rosin is thrown at her. Instinct wins and fails her simultaneously and she reaches out to deflect it with a non-existent left hand. It slides down the fabric of her cloak and settles at her feet where her hound curiously sniffs it.

She returns her unreadable gaze to the hunter, and says nothing.

“How could any of us not take issue with the Dread Wolf’s concubine defiling the ground of The People?”

“I am pleased to see that our people’s keen interest in preserving half-truths and baseless myths has not diminished.” She is light of speech; amicable enough to placate any assumption that she’s a threat, but earnest so that there is no room for the hunter to think she is having a laugh at his expense. “I am not trying to pass as one as you, friend, and I have little interest in defiling things: I am trying to pass through the woods. Ask what you would of me, and I will attempt to explain as best I can. Clan Sabrae has more than enough history to distrust mine, and I accept that.” She conjures more questions in the hunter’s mind and expends a tremendous amount of effort, managing to move the pot of rosin to her outstretched hand as quickly and obediently as her pup came to heel moments earlier. She wonders if she’s overdone it as her vision doubles and she feels faint.

Apprehensive at first, the hunter’s eyes flick from the small jar in her hand back to her bare face as if trying to fathom how she had gotten away with some offensive lie. “Trickery.” He announces. “This power of deceit…” his eyes flit to the rosin again, “... it is given to you by Fen’Harel. It is a boon of the flesh that you fed him - your own arm. He has devoured it and in doing so you are now bound to him.”

“Creative.” She comments, turning over the rosin in her fingers. “Is this inspiring and engaging tale the commonly accepted truth among the clans?”

“You’ve done little to disprove it with your deception and falsity.” Junar counters, his eyes narrowing.

“Then it would appear that I have become something of a living legend.” El’una says, quirking an eyebrow. “I will not deny your story, friend.” She declares. “But I would have my own skills given the credit they are due; clan Sabrae is familiar with clan Lavellan, and I know for a fact that though we may not be long-time acquaintances, you know of me, Junar. Now tell me; what was the First of clan Lavellan known for prior to joining The Inquisition?”

Junar’s eyes drift to the right, and El’una can tell that he is recalling something he has heard; reading these barely perceptible tells is a small but useful Ben-Hassrath skill that Bull let her in on. She waits patiently, scratching the hound at her feet behind the ears as the hunter processes the memory.

“Street magic; card turning and fortune telling; catering to ignorant shems and posing as a living statue to take their coin.” He says finally, not masking his disdain.

“Statues are easily overlooked by those who do not wish to see them move. Nobody thinks to wonder if stone listens… I can attest to the fact that it has nothing better to do.” She tosses the rosin to him and paces a few steps around the clearing. “What else was I known for aside from my sociable personality and skill as a spy?”

“It was said that you used to carry an ironbark blade etched with ancient words imbued with magic: It was said that you traveled with your staff slung across one shoulder, and the blade across the other, but my eyes must be suffering from more trickery, _Keeper El’una_ , for the sight of such a blade escapes me now.” He glances pointedly at her unencumbered shoulders. “I heard tales in my travels of the First of clan Lavellan and her skill as a swordsman.”

“Days which are sadly behind me, given my physical state.” She laments briefly before moving on. “What else?” She inquires. “What you’ve told me is impressive, but it does not a legend make.”

Junar’s eyes narrow further, and El’una can tell that he is tired of being patronized, though truthfully, she cares very little about how he feels regarding the matter.

“Curses.” He grinds out eventually. “‘That woman who is the First of clan Lavellan once spent an entire day and an entire night, sitting on the muddy shore of a slough and working magic so that she might free a captured member of the people from a brigade of Templars who had taken him and stolen away into a nearby village. She took no food or water, and she did not stand or stretch - she worked small holes in the clay-like mud with her fingers and created sigils out of river stones and rabbit bones. When the sun rose the morning after her vigil, a chorus of screams could be heard echoing over the walls of the village; the Templars had died - their bodies covered head to toe in angry looking, gangrenous boils - and all of the milk in the village had soured, and the hens nearby laid frogs instead of eggs. Fearing for their own lives, as well as the lives of their children, the villagers made no move to anger the elvhen clan camped beyond their walls further, and allowed the young mage to walk free.’” Junar recites the story and El’una nods her head in agreement at his words.

“Very nearly.” She says, holding up a finger. “The part about the milk and the frogs is definitely an embellishment, but the most important aspect of the story - the Templars and the manner of their death - is entirely true. I’ll leave you to think on that, friend, because if you think for a single moment that the things that I am capable of are due to some boon or gift from The Dread Wolf, you had best think again.” It is her turn for her eyes to narrow and her jaw to set now. “Fen’Harel only takes; he has given me nothing.”  

The hunter caves in on himself the first time in their conversation so far, appearing younger to her eyes than ever. “And yet it is said that you were seduced by him. Despite your skills as the First, you were unable to resist Fen’Harel.” He argues.

El’una taps an impatient finger against the folds of her cloak, attempting to disguise her displeasure: Of all the things you could have asked, you had to go straight to, ‘so you fucked Fen’Harel?’ She might attempt to dismiss her relationship with Solas as one lacking physical intimacy in an attempt to retain some credibility with the clan and dispel the pervading belief that she’s actually working with him rather than against him, but doing such a thing would undermine her own insistence that she’s actually trying to stop the ancient evanuris from playing god for his own good.

The very idea that she’s become naught but a cautionary tale to tell promiscuous young adults brings bile to her throat.

All tales need an ending however, and this one has not resolved to her liking.

“Yes.” She replies clearly. “I certainly was seduced by him. Though it’s not as if he introduced himself to me with the name ‘Fen’Harel’ and asked if I cared for a ploughing. If anything, it was more akin to a courtship - there were talks and meals shared, small spats and serious arguments - things that any couple has. There was even dancing and talk of a future.”  

The recoil and expression of revulsion on the face of the hunter and the congruent ripple through his kin are expected: Words are magic and the smallest manipulation of breath can create images within the minds of those it touches. From the looks the faces she sees she expects the predominant image is some sinful and sweaty compendium of the darkest variety despite her transparency regarding how it actually was. In the minds of the Dalish elves there is surely a sordid picture being painted; flashes of lightning within a storm as her pale form writhes and keens under the many eyed darkness that claims it. Surely she clings to the sheets and screams his real name so loudly that the Forgotten Ones are shifted by her ecstasy. All the while, his gasping and greedy maw inches ever closer to the power rooted in her left hand…

Couldn’t be farther from the truth, but the truth is of dwindling interest to her of late.

“I would give you my pity; Fen’Harel is crafty, and if you speak truly, he certainly lives up to his name.” Junar says, demonstrating compassion that turns the tables and forces El’una to be surprised now.  

“I have received enough pity to last a lifetime.” She says. “What I cling to now is hope that I may prevent something truly awful happening to this world by his hand. Right now, what I truly require is passage through the woods for myself and my company. You know who and what I am, Junar, and it is not your enemy.” She lowers her head and takes a step back towards her saddle, pausing when she hears bows creak all around the clearing. In answer, steel is unsheathed and bows are drawn by those who accompany her. She turns back to the hunter, the strange phantom of a dream once again interrupting her focus on the situation: Though many of the hunters outnumber her in years, she cannot help but think that these elves all look so small - so young - against the ancient backdrop that surrounds them.

There is a brief, but overwhelming memory of something being cracked, but she can’t remember what exactly it is.

“You would have me killed regardless?” She inquires, palming the side of her horse’s face, drawing a thumb across the velvet of its cheek.

“You are -” the hunter falters, all ego gone from him, his face appearing as that of a young boy’s. “You are a dangerous construct, friend. I… I want to believe in your words, but the cost of believing wrongly is too high.” He holds his own bow, an arrow nocked and aimed precisely at her heart.

She expects at first, that she would feel despair at his words, but is surprised where in its place she finds nothing but sorrow: She does not want to die today; she has too much left to do. She also does not want to fight people that she once called her own. She feels so alone in this moment: So entirely abandoned and isolated. She finds herself realizing in the back of her mind that Solas must have felt similarly upon waking to the strange world he created. A world that lives under his veil, wrought by his rebellion, founded upon his lies: The hopeless trap that he sealed himself into.

“I cannot let you kill me.” She says quietly, her vision swimming with tears and obscured by something… golden?

At this precise moment, something audibly _does_ crack with a shuddering and sudden force and breath escapes in the form of words that no one will remember. A thin barrier seemingly composed of fire erupts from El’una’s outstretched fingertips between herself and the man she once called kin. It rapidly spreads behind her, enveloping the travellers, their steeds and the pups. Arrows burn to ash where they strike the barrier and El’una wastes little time considering the cause of the chaos that unfolds around her: Her horse panics and starts, rearing and screaming before starting to bolt. She only just catches its bridle and is able to launch herself onto its back before it takes off at a dead gallop. The fiery barrier follows her as she barrels through the clearing and up the path, creating a sort of impenetrable corridor behind her for so that her company can follow without risk.

Her horse sprints full-gallop towards freedom, and on its back, El’una crouches low, terror-stricken and bewildered, but also victorious and vindicated. She is laughing as she grips the saddle with her thighs and drags her free hand through the tendrils of flame that are whipping past.

It occurs to her then, as she takes another ash-filled breath, what she dreamt of the night before: Secrets untold and laws broken with words. At the moment she cannot comprehend who or what had led her to such things, but it matters little in light of the realization that everything that she ever learned in her life was naught but a prison enforced by ages upon ages of guesswork and lies: She had been taught that mages need staves to do palpable, offensive magic. She had been taught that demons wait for mages around every corner in the Fade, and that they are savage, unreliable constructs. She had been taught that some magic is unknowable. She had been taught that Dirthamen was a peddler of knowledge and loyalty and was actually a _god_ because as far as the Dalish understood, nobody else knew what else to call the likes of him. She had been taught that the veil is a tangible, but infallible form of interference.

We are taught that we die.

And we believe it.

Intent forms the Fade

Oh how foolish we have been...


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "New as you are, really, to the idea that  
> Even after you've long since gotten used to the parameters:  
> They can all change" - Ani DiFranco

The fortress hasn’t changed much. The most notable difference being the very blatant lack of people. The courtyard stands still and nearly silent; the only sound being the gentle crackle of burning wood from the braziers around the yard and the sharp echo of a number of dogs near by. It’s all rather uncanny, he decides as he shakes the chill from his spine and takes the stairs up to the main hall. One would think that at least _some_ people would choose to stay behind; even if it is no longer the base of the Inquisition, it is still a hearty fortress and primarily, one with a roof on it. He did by a small contingent of guards on his way in; mostly dwarves. Scout Harding had been the one to greet him personally with an arrow nocked and aimed at his face. She was quick to apologize when he dropped his hood, but he was glad that El’una was still being looked out for.

The emptiness of the fortress is further impressed by the hall that is completely void of life. Just like outside, Skyhold is mostly the same inside; he glances up and smiles wryly as he remembers that he helped El’una pick the curtains that still catch the breeze quaintly, despite the dust that has accumulated on them. The furniture is where it has always been with the exception of the Inquisitor’s throne. No longer a brazen symbol in the centre of the room that more or less scruffed your attention and set it to stare obediently with little room for argument, it is set off to the side of the dias now. Under a black sheet,  impressive spokes and curved legs only just give it away for what it is.

A simple table has taken the place of the throne of the Inquisitor, along with a chair of matching description. From afar, Dorian can see that it is cluttered with heavy volumes, rolls upon rolls of parchment and more than a few dirty dishes. A deck of cards has spilled off the edge and onto the floor, and there are a number of scarves and coats slung willy-nilly off the back of the chair, lending a twinge of delirium to the cluttered space: El’una certainly appears to be spending a lot of time doing… whatever it is she’s doing over there.

The massive room feels distinctly abandoned without the typical hoarde of chatty Orlesians and people of all description taking up space, sometimes to the point where it was difficult to carve a clear path through the place. He is reminded of how it looked when they first came to Skyhold. Sure, the walls aren’t caving in and there (probably) aren’t bats living in the flue, but the braziers inside the hall aren’t lit, and that detail alone robs so much warmth and life from the cavernous hall. Scattered candles are all there are now to aid the dusty sunlight to illuminate the place. It makes him feel surprisingly sad, and he finds himself wondering what he thought he would expect upon his arrival: Everything has changed.

He looks to find her in the place that seems the most apparent, and as usual, his intuition does him credit.

She is in the rotunda, a level down from the library where he could be found on a typical day. The scent of the place is the first thing to hit him as he pushes open the door and a warm smile pulls at his lips. Some scents are ingrained in a person forever, and even the slightest lick of a scent on the breeze will launch them back to a time and place that can never be forgotten. This is one of those scents: Musty parchment, dry leather and dust mingled oily candles and whatever strange substances Solas used to crush up to create his pigments. And inevitably... the crow shit. Never any escaping that. But even factoring in the birds, this was where he found friendship and a sense of self, and in all truthfulness, the happiest times of his life so far.

This is the first place he’s seen in and around Skyhold so far that has changed considerably. _Interesting_. He thought she might have at least _tried_ to burn the place to the ground once everyone left, and he’s a little surprised that he hasn’t seen _any_ telltale scorch marks indicating attempted arson.

“You’ve redecorated.” He says, and El’una’s form straightens from the table she’s standing at. Her dark hair dances around her in time with the whirl of her skirts as she all but pirouettes around in a familiar flurry of gently jangling charms. Her expression is initially one of laughable, slack-jawed shock, muddied up by a touch of fear, but it rapidly morphs into a wide smile as comprehension dawns. He smiles too, for he will never, ever tire of making her smile. She hurtles towards him, bare feet slapping the stone ground as she closes the distance between them and embraces him with a vigour that threatens to upend him.

“Dorian!” She breathes, her voice becoming a grunt when he returns her embrace tenfold, groaning a little as he lifts her off her feet. “I’m so glad to see you!”

“As am I, but we can’t be surrounded by mirrors all the time, can we?” He grins into the mass of hair that has fallen into his face and is tickling his nose terribly. She slides back down to the floor, but she remains wrapped tightly around him.

“It is so, so very good to see you.” She says into his shoulder, and he believes it. It’s curious, he thinks, how just being around a person can be so elating, even after so long. One of lesser social grooming might take her by the shoulders and tilt their head back in laughter, pausing only to remark on how wonderful she is. He’s always cared little for the way things are supposed to be, so he does exactly that.

After so many minutes of embracing, laughing, and shaking their heads at how foolish they must look, El’una regains some focus. She parts from him with a delighted toss of her head and turns to doff what she was holding in her hand on the table; a small crystal on a thong that clatters amongst the other curious objects that litter the space that once belonged to someone else who also scattered the table with oddities.

“What have we here?” He asks, stepping closer to examine, ever captured by his curiousity.

There are a number of crystals, not unlike the one she had tossed. Laying among these are some stones, a few sewing needles and what looks to be a collection of bones from small animals; birds, rodents, cats and the like. He picks up a bird skull and eyes it, wrinkling his nose. “I know the Inquisition no longer exists, but I’m sure there’s _someone_ around who can find you something proper to eat.”

She plucks the skull from his fingers with an expression of mock displeasure. “If anything is missing around here it’s your scathing wit, Master Pavus.” She goads, setting the skull carefully back amongst the other bones. “It is… only something new I have been studying.”

He picks up a book that lays open on the edge of the table and leafs confidently through it, “Ah yes, I see. Seeing magic, is it? Scrying? Fascinating, if you have the patience to apply it practically, I suppose. Don’t see much of this back home… at least, nothing as stripped down. Anyone in Tevinter who professes to ‘ _see_ ’ doesn’t bother doing it without the aid of an outrageously dramatic setup and a crystal orb bigger than Varric’s head since he made the bestseller list four months ago.” He chuckles, amused at himself, and returns the book to the table. “Interesting premise behind the magic itself, though. Old stuff. Could be of use to people, but as far as I understand, it takes a lot of focus and time to get right, and there’s only so much one could do with the ability to know that the rival Magister they’re feuding with is currently taking a shit.”

El’una smiles humorlessly, “I would actually think that might be incredibly useful, depending on your aims.”

“Yes, well, nothing is ever simple back home.” He adds with the quirk of an eyebrow.

“And how are things going back in the Imperium? I trust you have the Magesterium in the palm of your hand?” El’una asks, pulling at the straps of Dagna’s newest prosthetic arm as she speaks; this one is made of silverite, and is less heavy than previous versions, but it still feels leaden and unnatural: The fingers don’t move, and it is purely ornamental. She could bludgeon someone to death with it if she wanted, but that’s really the only useful application she can think of. She drops it on the table with a ‘clunk,’ happy to be free of it.

“Do you do that often? I don’t think I shall ever get used to it.” He mentions, staring humorously at the forearm El’una had just removed from her person. He continues over her amused chortle. “There isn’t the faintest hope of an answer to your question without first tracking down a bottle of wine. I trust you haven’t drank the place dry?”

“Not while I held out hope that you might show up someday. Looks like I was right.” She smiles again and the expression curves deeply around her face with an authenticity that makes him feel for the elf: W _hen was the last time she smiled like that, standing in this room?_ She grabs his hand and pulls him out of the room, out into the main hall and towards the cellars. 

“I see that you’ve been keeping busy at least.” He remarks, following her down the stairs, into the depths of Skyhold. He makes a disgusted little sound at one point and flaps a cobweb out of his face.

“Sorry!” El’una says, looking over her shoulder, wincing. “Busy is an understatement. I mean… I have a lot to do, but I’ve been just really trying to get a handle on things, you know?” She wags the stump of her arm through the air and laughs at her own joke while he finds himself groaning exasperatedly. “Here I was, under the impression that I was doomed to a life of mediocrity without my arm.” She lifts her hand through the air and the extinguished torches lining the walls of the narrow hallway burst to life, all of them burning strongly with the exception of two or three that smoke a bit sadly but never fully immolate. El’una hisses between her teeth at her failure. “Ah! So close!”

“I can see that you’ve recovered from said mediocrity, and put your free time to good use.” He remarks, and they resume walking and he trails his fingers through the fire as the go.

“I don’t need a staff! And I’m not helpless either.” She explains, and although she remains cool, there is pride written all over her face. “I thought being forced to re-learn magic without one was going to be the death of me. It became clear to me only the other day on the journey back from Redcliffe: I don’t think anyone _needs_ a staff.” She more or less topples through a door with the same bizarre grace she has always possessed and he follows her into Skyhold’s wine cellar which she is also kind enough to illuminate with a movement.

He plants a hand on one hip, moving his other through the air in a similar movement to El’una’s, trying to fathom exactly how exhausted he would be after pulling off such a feat. “A novel and dangerous concept if you’re right. I would like to say I believe you, El’una, but if what you say is true, the ages old scientific premise of casting magic is wrong.”

“And always has been.” El’una points out. “And will continue to be so long as it is perceived that way. I should be shaking and fainting, possibly even sick with exertion. I was for the longest time: I almost passed out a few days ago moving a small object from the ground to my hand.” He shakes his head with an earnest appreciation underlying the motion: Even the most talented Magister would at least be inclined to sit down for a moment after casting such magic without a staff. Fire is tricky; fire not only sheds light, but it also emits heat and burns that which it touches. Whatever weakness in magical theory she has discovered, she is exploiting it to the utmost; something that both concerns and impresses him.

“We _need_ a staff, right? Something material that is a conduit to the Fade and allows us to channel its power through the Veil efficiently as opposed to just… _wrenching_ what we need through with force: Something that can be both exhausting, and unpredictable.” She stoops before a row of bottles and carefully selects one, blowing a good deal of dust from it before tucking it under her arm. “So those of us who discovered ages ago that we can tap into the Fade and its mana, realized that sometimes it happens accidentally, or leads to disastrous results, or sometimes doesn’t work at all. To counter that, we discovered bones, dead branches, and crystals we’d find in our travels: Things that have existed longer than life itself. We carved runes into the wood and fixed bones and crystals to the ends and we convinced ourselves that in doing so, it was the only way we could ever hope to control magic efficiently.” She snatches his hand again, and whisks out of the room, up the stairs at a frenzied pace. “In the meantime, we conveniently overlooked that we are in fact the best link to the Fade there is.”

“In what sense?”

“When we die, over time, what’s left of us becomes the grass and soil. Trees and flowers grow from what used to be a person, and in a way, what composed that person continues on, nourishing the climate around it, even in death. If Solas tells it true, he didn’t create this world: It already existed. He just put a Veil between it and the Fade. He didn’t destroy the world: It continued to live on, but _differently_ ; elves began aging and dying off, marvels were made extinct, and humans started cropping up more frequently. The Veil separates this world from what made it what it once was, and as I mentioned, people _did_ discover they could still reach through the Veil and use mana. How did magic continue to exist if it was supposedly locked away?” She continues at a feverish pace that leads him to believe she’s more pleased than anything that she finally has someone to dump this all on who can actually keep up with her. “‘ _Because of weaknesses in the Veil_ ,’ you say. Sometimes. But in truth, because we are descended from what was left over; from people and things that lived and breathed the Fade. Memory is powerful. Obviously the world as it was morphed and changed and became a shadow of what it once was, but life persisted, as per Solas’ intent. We are the old bones and the dead branches and the ageless crystals. We are physically built from the _remnants_ of an ancient world that, according to Solas had a connection to the Fade that was so natural that reaching out and interacting with it was an effortless act.” She comes to an abrupt halt as they reach the main hall again and she sets the wine on a table and turns back to him, looking so impossibly enlightened that it makes him smile.

“It is no longer effortless for us; we have this invisible repellant between ourselves and the Fade. We believe that we are not strong enough, that our connection to the Fade is not what it used to be.” She grasps him by the shoulder and leans in close, “Dorian; just like everything else - _it’s all bullshit_.” She whispers slyly. “Our ability to manipulate the Fade is what it always was, because energy does not die. It lives on and becomes something else, and over time, all of that ancient connection to the Fade never died. It just became something else: It became the veins in plants and the marrow in our bones. It is very much alive… our ancestors just never gave it the chance to wake up properly before we entirely forgot about it and resigned ourselves to abandonment.” They return to the altered rotunda and she passes the wine to him, “If you wouldn’t mind?” She asks, withdrawing a corkscrew from one of the many pockets hidden within the folds of her skirt. He accepts the tool and the wine with a wry smile.

“You really must stop looking so impressed with yourself. Your head might topple you over if it grows any larger.” He teases. “I think I’ll stick with my staff; I do look so impressive when I’m using it. I just wouldn’t feel the same without it.” He flashes her a smile and tugs the cork free from the wine with a small ‘ _pop!_ ’

“But it makes sense, right? I haven’t the slightest idea if I’m articulating this properly.” She sighs and runs her hand through her hair. “It’s all about the rules. We have been wrong about everything; and that’s not even just counting the Dalish: We were all wrong. How could we not be? We had no context, no way of knowing exactly what happened. The rules we have made for ourselves since the dawn of this world are: _We-Made-These-Up-Because-We-Actually-Have-No-Idea-About-Anything_. Solas gave us more context about the _why’s_ and _how’s_ of the world in twenty minutes than we have ever gleaned over the course of our entire existence. Those rules are no longer binding because we now know why they cannot be enforced.”

He laughs, taking a pull directly from the bottle before passing it off to El’una. “An attitude that would spread like a plague within Tevinter, I’m afraid.” His face becomes serious, “I must ask; what do you plan to do with this potentially catastrophic information?”

“Stop him.” She replies, swallowing a mouthful of spicy wine. “I won’t kill him, and I won’t fight him, but I need to be able to pull off things that were previously deemed impossible by the confines of the old rules. This magic is going to change the world, but the world isn’t ready for it just yet. Why did you come?” She blurts suddenly, as if it had only just occurred to her that he was actually there.

“There has been strange activity in my homeland in regard to our friend, actually. I am told that curious and sneaky looking pockets of elves are cropping up around the ruins of the ancient elves, particularly in the region near the forest of Arlathan.” He paces towards the walls of the room as he speaks, and lifts the edge of a black curtain with the tip of his fingers, surveying what lies beneath it. He almost makes mention of it, but decides not to, turning back to El’una instead. “I understand what it is he intends to do, and your wishes to avoid crying _wolf_ and causing widespread chaos, but I’m concerned about the Imperium’s reaction to a large group of elves roaming the countryside unchecked: Especially if they don’t belong to anybody.”

El’una nods, understanding. If the Imperium were to attack or in any way endanger Solas’ agents, she doesn’t doubt his retribution would be subtle, but brutal. _How does one explain to an entire nation that has thrived on the enslavement of the race that they need to leave the damn elves alone?_ Guessing why Solas has taken an interest in Tevinter is plain enough to her though.

“I couldn’t destroy them. Not completely.” She admits quietly, her eyes darting to the murals hidden under yards of black fabric. “I wanted to. I even tried.” She explains in answer to his perplexed expression when he lifted the curtains away from the wall and saw the deep gouges that marred a portion of the wall. “I didn’t even want to come back here, knowing that it was his all along, and I certainly didn’t want to be surrounded in… in…” her voice flags and she waves a hand, “ _Memories_.” She gladly accepts the bottle of wine that he is now holding out to her and she drinks deeply. “Taking an axe to them wounded me deeper than the plaster, I‘m afraid. I hate them. I hate every line; every misplaced brush-stroke; every inch of these walls I _hate_ more than I’ve ever hated anything. But… I can’t bring myself to unmake them. Why can’t the fool look at the world the same way?” She half smiles at him then, and draws herself up after what looked to be a short internal struggle. “You came all the way here to tell me you’re concerned by a wolf at your doorstep? This still works just fine, you know.” She lifts the pendant at her neck with a finger.

“Yes and no,” He admits. “I came here to tell you, and then take you with me.”

El’una snorts, deeply amused at the path this conversation has branched down. She flops into the chair that Solas so often occupied in his own time here, by all definitions looking just as world-weary as he used to. “You must be joking. Take me, the former Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste, and exiled Dalish elf to the Imperium? I’ll be murdered within a fortnight.” She scoffs, picking up a pendulum and twirling it around her finger, and then back again.

His eyes twinkle he knows that El’una understands there will be no refusing him; he’s thought this through, and once he has thought something through, there’s no arguing out of it. “Maybe before the Inquisition, back when you didn’t have a handsome and talented Magister at your disposal. Not to say that people _won’t_ try to murder you if given the chance, but we’ll just have to make sure they won’t get one, won’t we?” He leans his palms against the table, still holding the bottle of wine with one hand. “I need you to get these agents of his out of my homeland before another war starts. He thinks he’s being smart and stealthy, pulling strings between us and the Qunari so we might keep each other occupied with fighting, but Tevinter has been at war for too long to let such things go unnoticed. I fear for my people, El’una, and if you happen to find him, don’t you _dare_ ever tell him I said that.”

“Said what?” El’una frowns, wrinkling her nose. “He’d find the fact that you care so deeply about your people commendable, regardless of who they are.” He sees her balk slightly at her own haste to come to his defense even now.

“No, no.” He straightens and waves a dismissive hand, “The fact that _I’m_ afraid of him. The gloating would be endless. Ugh.” He slides the bottle towards El’una and crosses his arms, “And the opportunity to tell him that may arise; I deeply suspect he is inside our borders.”

“I’m not going looking for him.” El’una shakes her head, “Not yet. I’m not ready. I know what he’s looking for, and I will purge his people from the area, but I won’t seek a conflict with him personally.”

“Will you ever truly be ready? How ready could a person be to openly negotiate with an ancient elf bent on the destruction of the Veil and thousands of lives along with it?”

“There’s an answer to that question somewhere.” El’una responds, “I just don’t have it yet.”

He shrugs, placing faith in the impression he gets that El’una is not giving everything away at face value: _Very well, she may keep her secrets. If it results in her saving the world, what care do I have?_ “If you say so. I’ve known you long enough to wager a guess that you already know a trick or two that’ll make him positively melt in your capable hands.” He grins lecherously and El’una throws a stone at him in playful retort.

“Would that it were so simple.” She jests.

He wags a finger at her then, and she appropriately laughs at the words that follow. “You can never underestimate the power of a well-timed seduction. Ask half of the Magisterium.”

“It seems I’ll have to make a point of it if I am to accompany you.” She manages between bouts of laughter. “As predicted, you appear to have a plan, and I hope that it involves more substance than ‘ _seduce Fen’Harel and tell him to swan off._ ’”

“Like I said, never rule it out.” He advises before continuing. “Using my sway as a Magister, I can get you into the Imperium. The real issue is going to be assuring you any measure of freedom after we reach Minrathous. I can’t personally accompany you at all times, due to all of the important meetings and parties I must attend, and our problem isn’t exactly in the city: We need to come up with a way for you to roam freely without being recognized and assassinated, or noticed as an elf and consequently enslaved.”

“I am not posing as a slave.” She declares abruptly. He can see that the impulse was wicked and it won in its will to become words, but he understands her determination: She had not learned what she had of slavery only to assume its mantle once again.

He rolls his eyes and his moustache bristles ever so slightly in the huff of air that is expelled from his mouth. “I was thinking only initially to get you over the borders, but alright. Have it your way. We’re going to have to learn quickly then: The longer his people are poking around ancient ruins, the more attention they’ll draw. Considering your discoveries of late, however, learning shouldn’t be much of a problem.”

“Learning what?”

“Those sharp ears have got to go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I hope this is okay. These are all... really big ideas, that I don't even have my own head wrapped around.
> 
> !!!!!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Free will is amazing.  
> It is empowering.
> 
> That does not change the fact that it can drag us to madness rather than salvation.
> 
> Free will is dangerous.

“A part of me is convinced that this is brilliance, another part can’t shake the feeling that it’s a ridiculous farce.”

“It’s a _glamour_.” Dorian impresses, “Of course it’s a ridiculous farce; that’s the point.”

“You mentioned before that people in your homeland typically don’t use this sort of magic because they’re too proud to dabble in outward concealment. I’m beginning to think they don’t bother with it because it’s both exhausting and stupid.” She remarks blandly, opening her palm to reveal a charming sprig of alyssum, conjured from thin air. “For you.” She says, holding her hand out to Dorian.

“A bit of focus, El’una? You’re supposed to be my distant and long-dead cousin, not a gardener.”

Her eyes narrow darkly and she pelts him with the flowers, “And who’s to say that Lady Evelyn Trevelyan doesn’t enjoy gardening as a pastime?”

Dorian smirks at her retort, coming back easily with one of his own. “Careful, Lady Trevelyan. When you get all worked up like that, your ears get all… _pointy_. It’s quite odd.”

She groans and clenches her teeth in frustration: She wasn’t jesting when she said this was both exhausting and stupid; even with her handle on staffless magic, a glamour requires constant maintenance and concentration for it to work effectively. It isn’t the same as shapeshifting, which requires two tremendous exhaustions of power; one to transform, and one to turn back. A glamour is only an illusion cast over oneself to give themselves a different outwards appearance. It requires drawing power consistently from the Fade and only works so long as those it is being worked on have reason to believe it: Another likely reason why it is so rarely used in the modern age. She makes a fist and her knuckles pop as she breathes heavily through her nose and turns back to face the large mirror set in the corner of her chambers. She tosses a glance over her shoulder at Dorian who is lounging imperiously on the settee, enjoying a glass of wine.

“Must be nice.” She quips. “Getting to watch me do all the work.”

Dorian shrugs and reaches for the bottle sitting on the nearby end table. “I’m not the one that needs a disguise. Besides, even if I did have to use this magic, it wouldn’t last for long. Between the two of us, you’re the only one who has mastered the expenditure of limitless mana.”

“I think ‘mastered’ is being generous. I fell asleep last night at half seven.”

In order to pass herself off as Evelyn Trevelyan, she had to confidently maintain her focus regardless of what came up. Over the past fortnight it had been a course of building up the skill required to maintain the glamour while performing routine, day to day tasks. First came standing still, then came walking around Skyhold, then came trickier things like eating meals and carrying on conversations. There was a particularly nasty period where Dorian incessantly prodded her about Solas, asking a series of extremely personal questions that ranged from topics that were downright embarrassing, to accusations that filled her with guilt. It wasn’t nice, it wasn’t kind, and it wasn’t Dorian, but the last thing either of them wanted was for El’una to lose her handle on her emotions in a tense situation with some bureaucrat. The former Inquisitor materializing in the middle of a room full of Magisters would surely spell disaster.

She sighs heavily and closes her eyes, drawing on the Fade, connecting with the initial resistance she is met with from the Veil. It pushes against her intent, serving its purpose as a barrier between herself and the magic that lay beyond it, but instead of pushing back, she relaxes her pressure, recalling the old words and ancient songs that live in the windblown grass and the stillness of freshly fallen snow: The same words and songs thrum in her own heart and come from the same place. _I am the same, but not the same. I am older._

There is a metaphysical shudder as The Veil acquiesces to her truth and politely dissipates in the path of her reach, allowing her to draw upon the magic necessary to not only make her look like a shem, but to also falsify an arm.

When she opens her eyes again, her connection to the Fade remains strong and consistent, but she is staring into the face of a woman of similar age. Her hair is pale and falls past her waist and her eyes are wide and blue. Her skin is sun kissed and scarless and just like her own, free of any trace of the vallaslin. She’s a beautiful woman, well suited to the rich fabrics and finery that adorn her. The convincing disguise does little to dispel the guilt at the fact that she is hiding behind a dead woman’s face.

A pang of guilt sweeps over her at the thought of the real Lady Trevelyan; the one that died in the explosion at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. She had not met her formally, but she had seen the noblewoman and her contingent of Circle mages in passing during the council. She was a proud looking woman; fierce in the eyes and straight in the back. How she was going to live up to such a presence with any consistency was a mystery to her. The real Lady Trevelyan likely never imagined that her legacy would be an elf reviving her through means of falsification. 

She lifts her left arm and looks down, wiggling perfectly manicured and existent fingers. It still feels strange, having an arm in one sense or another after learning to be without for so many months. When Dorian first explained to her that the glamour could also falsify an arm, she was elated at the prospect of having the limb back, even if she had subverted the need of a staff. She was surprised to find that she had more difficulty with it than she expected: She keeps forgetting it exists; talks with her right hand only when conversing, leaving the left to hang limply by her side ridiculously. The day before last, she closed it in a door and it vanished.

It functions like a real arm to an extent -- A real arm composed of magic and intent. Like the rest of the glamour, it only exists as long as she continues manifesting its existence on other people’s senses. The problem with constructs composed of magic, is that they tend to be fragile to things that are not also composed of magic. Dorian had given her the go ahead to use the arm; eat and drink with it, move it, open doors with it, but to also favour it and attempt to avoid anything that might be a sudden shock to the fabric of the magic; no throwing punches, no exasperated slamming of fists, no physical blocking: It was to be treated as if it was made of spun sugar.

“We need to consider the eventuality that I may have to fight like this. At the very least I need to be able to _act_ like a mage.” She says, clenching and unclenching her left hand. Although she no longer requires a staff, having the arm back in one form or another does create a longing in her to hold one again.

“One thing at a time.” Dorian reminds her. “Before you need worry about roasting adversaries as my cousin, you must first learn to act like her. I mean nothing by it of course, but your social decorum needs some work.”

A derisive huff of air falls from lips that aren’t her own. “Might I remind you that I charmed the pants off of the Winter Palace? Without this.” She motions up and down her figure.

“Yes, well. You must forgive me if I can’t remember clearly. By the end of the night I don’t even think I knew where my own pants ended up, let alone anyone else’s.” Dorian smirks over the rim of his goblet. “Honestly though, you look ravishing outwardly, but people are going to wonder why this stunning specimen from the Marches sounds like an elf that has lived her entire life in the back of an aravel, hunting shems.”

She lets the jab slide and instead turns away from the mirror, crossing the room to the settee with long, purposeful strides that are considerably different than her typically short, somewhat scattered rhythm. When she reaches Dorian’s side she closes her eyes and smiles politely, dropping into a deep, sweeping curtsy. She even has her fingers rounded and the tips pressed daintily against each other.

“Magister Pavus, it is so kind of you to welcome me into your home. I hope the duration of my stay at your estate is no hassle to your good graces and hospitality. If I may; could I entreat the Master for a sip of wine? The road was _terribly_ dusty and I fear that I am utterly parched.” She speaks in a deeper, raspier tone, but it is still her voice. Her slight Dalish lilt is replaced with long, sticky vowels and snappy consonants. Long eyelashes lift, and she blinks slowly, straightening from her curtsey.

Dorian’s mustache twitches from side to side in what might be annoyance.

“Very well.” He snips, passing her the wine goblet, which is in turn accepted with the most graceful of fingers. “You’ve certainly got a presence about you despite all your years in the Circle, _Lady Trevelyan_.”

“Don’t patronize me, Dorian.” She says in a voice that is still unfamiliar. “I haven’t been surrounded by nobles and their posturing for the past years to be so ignorant as to not pick up a few things.” Lady Trevelyan passes the goblet of wine to her left hand with more deliberation than it should take and stretches her right palm out the the Magister in front of her. A beautiful, deep blue delphinium weaves into existence from nothingness. “My thanks for the wine.” She purrs, tipping the flower into Dorian’s hand. “To the yard now? My pets are hungry.”

 

* * *

 

_I have created some sort of monster._

The thought leaves him be long enough so he can throw up a barrier strong enough to repel the wave of fire that is hurtling towards him. He hears El’una laugh and he straightens and recovers to see the figure of his dead cousin enrobed inside a web of flame that is composed of more than simple pillars of fire: No. She’s gone the full on theatrical, bleeding-heart Tevinter path of making each stream of fire into a different animal: There are fish, and halla, and serpents gamboling through the air around her where her hands conduct them. Her face positively glows as she watches with delight.

_She will fit right in with the culture of the Imperium if she keeps this up. She will be the fucking belle of the ball._

He narrowly dodges the hound that has made its sole priority in life to bowl him over. The pup (if the massive beast can be called that,) skids to a halt and drops its front haunches, tail slicing through the air with a sense of barely contained joy: At least _one_ of them was having a good time. He has a hard time faulting her for this stroke of madness: These creatures will grow to be loyal till death and that is something El’una is in great need of. He would not revel to be at the receiving end of those jaws when these animals are fully grown, hungry, and beholden to a small, angry elven woman.

“How certain are you that this is wise?” He pants, remorseful of the amount of sweat he is covered in. He warily side-eyes the hound, who is circling him threateningly again. “Don’t get me wrong: You look fantastic. You _are_ fantastic. You’ve clearly got a grip on all of this, but it leaves one to wonder exactly how safe it is for one to be poking around the Fade with the mentality of ‘ _Hang the Veil! I do as I please!_ ’”

El’una’s hands drop, and the fire does too. It dissipates on the ground around her, leaving the grass smoking slightly. “Oh, no it’s not like that at all. You mean demons, right?” She laughs lightly before breaking into a rather harsh fit of coughing that takes her a few moments to recover from. He feels his brow press in concern. “You can’t have forgotten any of Solas’ numerous ‘ _Demons are just Spirits_ ’ speeches.” She teases after catching her breath.

“For someone so staunchly set against his actions, you certainly seem to be using a lot of his knowledge.” He observes; it’s true. Nearly every concept she’s proven in practice or mentioned since his arrival harkens back to Solas’ own theories and beliefs. He would know: He was constantly privy above the rotunda, listening to the elf tell El’una all manner of concepts that at the time were simple to dismiss with a quietly whispered, “ _Lunacy_ ,” as he flipped another page of a book from his comfortable armchair in the library.

“Why not? It’s the knowledge of not only an ancient being, but of a world that thrived prior to our own.” Still sounding rather hoarse, she takes a long drink from her waterskin and wipes her mouth with the back of her arm. “They’re around, absolutely: Purpose, Curiousity, Temperance and more. Duty is especially piqued by my actions of late; but if I were I to drag Duty through the Veil as it is, it would likely become Rage. I am not seeking to draw them into this world, however; I am happy to let them observe from afar. If they choose to pass through the veil, it is at their own behest. The magic I use today is magic from a time where Demons did not exist because there was no Veil for them to cross through and become twisted by an incorrect purpose. I figure I’m at little risk of becoming an abomination. So long as my aims remain noble, I am in no danger.”

He presses his lips together, and pours some water over his head before he speaks, unable to ignore his concern any further; her logic is far from sound and her quarry is dangerous ground as it stands. “The more you talk about it all, the more you sound like him.” He states. “You claim you have no interest in confronting him, but with every spell I watch you cast, I can’t help but understand why your people used to be viewed as gods. I’m afraid that there is too much knowledge at your disposal… too much potential for divergence.” He leans his staff against the fence and lifts his hand; fire dances between his fingertips before forming into a perfect sphere that rolls in his outstretched palm. “This,” he says, looking down at the sphere of fire, “Is casual. There is little thought or effort in this act. Any mage can do this out of boredom to pass the time.” He places his other hand on top of the sphere and raises it, causing the orb to balloon in size until it is nearly two feet across. “This, on the other hand, is exhausting. I could put motion behind it, and I could almost surely kill a man with it if I wanted to. But…” He falters, his nose creasing as he fights to maintain the ball of fire. “Making that happen would almost surely kill me.”

“Stop.” El’una demands darkly. “Dorian. Let it go.” When he doesn’t and she sees the beads of sweat snaking down his neck past his collar, she acts instead: With little more than a blink from her, he feels his magic sent away, scattering back to the Fade by a will stronger than his own; the space between his hands is empty and he is gasping for air while she stands before him, breathing with ease. He feels his knees weaken and the ground meets them a moment later. Her arm is around his back and her warm hazel eyes are gazing into his with concern; she looks like herself again.

“I want you to succeed.” He concedes. “There is no one better than you in this world as a saviour for such a fucked up load of people, but… I worry for you.” He hates the crack that invades his voice at this admittance, but pushes on regardless. “Where is this path going to lead you? It is a path that I have seen more friends walk than I care to admit.” He laughs bitterly then at the thoughts of Alexius that have been lurking on the edge of his subconscious since El’una had related the truth of her unnatural progress to him: Progress is all well and good, but too much and at one time has the tendency to gain more muscle and hunger than one can handle before it is too late.

El’una coughs again deeply in her chest and she shoves away the curious hound that has plodded over and began sniffing invasively at Dorian’s ear. “Stop that.” She chides the dog softly. She wraps her right hand around his wrist and rocks back on her heels, raising them both to their feet. “Dorian,” she says sincerely, squeezing his hand, “Please don’t fear for me. I fear for myself in large enough quantities already. I… I don’t know what else to do. How can I have any hope of getting close to him if I can’t measure up to him? How might I parlay with him if I can’t even defend myself if I have to?”

“Answer me only one more thing.”

“Anything.” She pledges.

He gazes firmly at her face; the face of a woman in her mid-thirties, bare-faced despite her origin, with eyes rimmed with dark circles. She looks exhausted.

“If you are unable to meet your ends; if you cannot dissuade our friend. Will you be the one to kill him?”

El’una draws a long, shaking breath, but does not break eye contact.

“If all other options are exhausted, if there is no hope in my course and all that I aim to achieve is lost… yes. It will be my hands that are soaked with his blood. If I must, I will kill Solas myself.” She releases his hand from hers and turns away, the last sight of her face a mask of misery. “I am ready to leave when you are, Dorian. I am comfortable enough in my ability to maintain this facade.”

She departs across the yard alone and the hound remains by his side. It stretches its muzzle skyward and lets out a baleful howl that Dorian thinks he hears returned by a beast far outside the castle walls.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Free will makes it possible for us to torture ourselves with bad decisions.
> 
> Free will tells us that, at the time... there could be nothing better.

Nothing about their relationship had ever been deliberate or well thought through.

The stolen kiss in the Fade was an action wrought by an impulsiveness that would remain constant throughout the duration of their time together. It was the of many instances where desire ultimately won out over any intelligible  thought. She might have heeded reason and it’s ever-weakening call… had it mattered at the time.

It mattered little now.

The last thing she said before he had pulled her close and covered her mouth with his own was, “Adding nuts to baked goods is a fucking sin.”

She laughs into the kiss as she leans against the table in the centre of the room. Paintbrushes roll off the sides and clatter to the stone floor beneath them as she braces herself against the table and Solas makes space for his thigh between her legs. “This is… not the reaction I expected from that comment.” She breathes, parting from their embrace only long enough to complete her thought before eagerly returning to his touch.

“No.” He states, claiming her lips again with a fervour that makes Fade-tongue pale deeply in comparison. His long fingers play up her sides and she is overcome by the sensations that take her body, along with the lingering desire to laugh at what spurred the situation to begin with; she feels light, tingling; brimming with both desire and laughter that threaten to overwhelm her at any moment. It is the headiest rush she has ever experienced, and that fact is what prompts her to scoot her hips forward so that she may placate the need between her legs against Solas’ own. The connection earns her a slight groan from Solas and his attention is taken to her neck where he gladly tastes her skin. His fingers weave themselves into her hair with the gentlest pull and reveal more of her skin to his mouth. She feels his digits coaxing her hand from the table and she follows his lead, pressing the flat of her palm to his open hand as he suckles her neck, driving waves of ecstasy through her entire being.

“You are… you are marvelous.” He claims between small kisses that trail up her neck. “Bizarre.” He purrs. “Unique. I can’t...” The last words are whispered into the shell of her ear with such a hunger that it is all she can do to not launch the pair of them away from the table and against the freshly applied coat of paint behind them.

“Then don’t.” She retorts, “Don’t stop.” She implores, grinding herself against his thigh with a renewed desperation. The night is late, but it’s not that late: At any given moment Dorian could tumble through the door, fresh from The Herald’s Rest. She searches inwardly, and is astonished to find that she hasn’t a fuck to give about consequences. Not now.

He laughs now: A low and permeating tone that strikes something deep and dark within her. There is a jingling sound as his hand ghosts overtop of her skirts offering the lightest of touches to her womanhood which is nestled almost frustratingly under so many layers of fabric. A frustrated hiss is rent from her lips only to be quickly silenced by the gentle placement of teeth at the lobe of her ear by her lover.

“ _Shhhh…_ ” He soothes, though as her head rolls back in exasperation she catches a glimpse of the amusement in Solas’ eyes.

“Shhhh.” She repeats rather harshly then, lifting her head and grabbing him by the front of his shirt, consuming him in a bruising kiss that ignites the entire rigmarole anew. She leverages against the deceivingly sturdy table and grants herself the momentum to push away, backing the pair of them gracelessly against the scaffolding set against the wall. From above she can hear jars wobble precariously and another couple paintbrushes tip-tap onto to the ground when Solas’ back strikes the wooden frame.  

He exhales heavily through his nose, making a noise deep back in his throat that brings to mind the sound one might make when enjoying a sumptuous feast.

“You feel good.” He observes. “You smell good… you are…” He tears away and meets her eyes with the most genuine gaze she has ever seen. He takes her in for a moment before surprising her with a rather broad and goofy smile. “You are just.... _good_.”

Unable to take it anymore, El’una lays her hands on him for the first time; intimacy has always been something earned and not taken ostensibly. She would sooner have someone touch her first so that she may know she is welcome to do the same. Things like hands and hugs… simple, uncomplicated touches are so easily dispensed, but to infringe on someone’s space any further than that is an action that required permission.

The touch is welcome, and her fingers come to rest on his shoulder, where the fabric of his tunic is warm and soft to the touch. Her other hand snakes around his waist after meandering briefly across his back, testing the realness of the scenario.

She is in his arms, and he in hers. There is an overwhelming but undeniable sense of need permeating the room and it occurs to her that this is the intersection that every pair of infatuated dreamers arrives at eventually: It is a moment than can last for hours, days, moments or months: It is the unspoken question that lingers and hangs until it is answered with either acquiesce or denial: _Do you want me? Will you have me?_

Her body undulates against his and each point of contact sets fire to her flesh.

_Please say you will._

She feels him shudder against her movement and her skirts sing again as Solas deftly reaches under them. Fingers, light and articulate dictate paths over the flesh of her thigh and she gasps at the sudden intrusion. Her eyes close and sparks dance in the blackness on the inside of her eyelids as he thumbs the juncture of her legs with a touch most delicate. Breath falls from her lungs and in the form of yet another ardent laugh: She can’t help it. Besides being completely enraptured by what’s currently happening, she is for the most part filled with the most natural and pure sensation of _happiness_ she has ever felt.

“ _Yes._ ” He promises her and she all but uproots herself from his touch, whirling away, a mess of flushed skin and disarranged skirts. The wetness on her thighs is only encouraged as her eyes slide over his figure and what remains hidden by a maddening amount of clothing… so within reach but… _not here_. She steals his hand into her own and begins to haul him from the rotunda but he stops her with a palm against the door before she can fling it open and spirit him away.

“Are we?...” He asks, his face serious for only a moment before she replies without hesitation.

“Yes.” She pants, nodding violently, her face splitting into a foolish grin that he instantly mirrors, much to her elation. “I… I believe so.” And she wrenches the door open and pulls him through, his laughter blessedly chasing her through the abrupt path she carves through the empty Main Hall.

They crash through the door to the Inquisitor’s chambers and he pushes her into the corner before they can even ascend the stairs.

“This is stupid.” She half laughs. “This is foolish.”

Solas nods his agreement as he draws his tongue across the cleft of her breasts.

“Very.” He concedes, losing himself in her scent.

“It’s _amazing._ ” She notes as he writes a symphony with his lips across her collarbone. “I blame you entirely.”

“Who would dare guess that baked goods might bring a pair of people together in such a way?” He philosophises, returning his fervor to her lips, drawing them between his teeth and delighting in the blissful whine his action elicits. His hand reclaims its place under her skirts now that they are in private. She emits the lightest of laughs at his touch and begins scrambling for his own clothing.

“I don’t want _this_.” She announces as her fingers find ample purchase on his tunic so that she may pull it over his head and shoulders with a single efficient movement. The garment drips from her fingers to a pool on the ground and she drags her own top off with as much brevity, ducking under his arm so that she has his back against the wall now. “I didn’t want that either.” She whispers, drawing the tips of her fingers against his bare chest before they dip down to his abdomen. They dance teasingly within the waistband of his trousers and he’d be of half a mind to return the favour were it not for the precision of her seduction giving him pause: There is a sense of abandon in her actions that is characteristically void in her day-to-day awkward, self conscious attempts at banter. It throws him off, but does little to slake the hunger in his eyes as his lips meet her own once again.

She throws her arms around his shoulders and presses herself against every inch of bare flesh she can reach. It is her turn to plant multiple kisses of varying pressure against his smooth neck and she is egged on by the pleasing sound that falls from his lips at her efforts: It calls to mind the immediate attraction she felt upon first hearing his voice early in the morning, shortly after waking - she _longed_ to hear that sleepy, spaced-out speech in the throes of bliss. She had long wanted to wake up to it.

His chin rests on her shoulder and he is pressing small kisses of his own to what skin he can reach. One hand rises and comes to rest on her round, ripe heart, the other; down her smalls.

Blood is rushing in her ears. She feels oddly disconnected from her body, despite the realness of his fingers inside her.

_Please._

_Please let me -_

“ _Fenedhis!_ ” She pounds her fist into the feather bed under her as her eyes adjust to the darkness and her body realizes the rocking motion of the sea she is carried on. A memory. Nothing more. That fact didn’t mean she wanted to leave any less. She would have stayed forever in the memory of their first encounter if she was given the chance: She never felt more free than she did that night, back when every mistaken touch or betrayal of endearment was simple to justify in light of the danger that threatened the world. Impulsive? Yes. Impassioned? Undeniably. But back then, it was easy to ignore those truths by simply apologizing for their lack of discipline until the next time they found themselves accidentally waking up in each other’s arms.

At least they were _both_ amply surprised when it became clear that they had fallen in love with each other.

She swears again and reaches for the bottle of wine stowed next to her bed. In doing so, she forgets that she was just asleep, and she is not currently under the guise of Evelyn Trevelyan; she grabs for the bottle by her bedside with a hand that doesn’t exist and falls to her side due to the misplacement of momentum. A frustrated groan cuts through the dark and she snatches the bottle with an arm that is fully functional and whole, tearing the cork away with her teeth, still worrying at the sore spot in her heart that is bleeding anew because of her dream.

This is their third day at sea. They will reach harbour in Cumberland by morning-next, according to Dorian: She couldn’t be happier at the prospect. The ship and its inherent doldrums give her little cheer and even less freedom. At least in Tevinter she will be able to roam around a vicinity larger than a ship, even if she is masquerading as a dead woman in order to ably do so.

Dim candles sway with the rhythm of the ship’s path through the sea and she sits cross legged under the sheets, giving in to the rise and fall under her. She takes the occasional swig of wine as she stares in silence for a long time at the swaying flames. Eventually, she notices that her ears feel warm. Shortly after, her cheeks feel wet. She finally blinks and a withering sob breaks free from her lips.

“No.” She says to no one in particular.

“No. I will _not_.” She emphasizes firmly, sucking a deep breath in through her mouth that only just brushes her lungs before her frame collapses in a fit of coughing. Desperate gasps punctuate the continuous racket that goes on for far too long. She feels her palms clam up against the sheets she is gripping as her vision goes spotty and she wills herself to calm down and breathe normally. Her heart races, and the muscles in her abdomen ache. She feels the nerves at the back of her throat begin to protest at the abuse they are receiving.

She emits a wretched hack and it is just light enough in the cabin for her to see the small dark flecks that fly from her mouth and strike the white bedsheet. The taste of copper hits her tongue when she licks her lips.

“Fuck." She observes her voice feeling raw and strained. Her head feels light and her entire body tingles unpleasantly.

_Fuck._

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Egg puns.
> 
> Everywhere.  
> I love it.
> 
> I do not love writing things that are hot and heavy. I did my best. I apologize.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes things do not go the way we want them to.
> 
> Free will presents us with the ability to choose how we will react.

Dorian had told it true, and they made port in Cumberland the following morning. After a swift ride in a decadent carriage up the Imperial Highway, she and Dorian rested for the night at a luxurious inn in Nevarra.

By this point it was imperative that she remain under the guise of Lady Trevelyan at all times, and despite the initial fear she felt as she bundled the skirts of her voluminous gown into her hand, she thought she did a more than acceptable job of accepting the hand of the carriage driver and daintily unfolding from the vehicle, onto the ground.

They ate and drank in Nevarra and she took to bed at an early hour so as to be well rested in the morning.

With the sunrise comes a new brand of confidence that she had not possessed the night before: Failure wasn’t an option before; it is even less of one now. The private upheaval she has suffered over the past couple of days is enlightening despite its implications.

She stands on the veranda of the suite that she and Dorian share and stares at the sun rising across the gold and green plains of Nevarra. She can hear him on the other side of his bedroom door, clattering around, getting ready, buckling clasps and swearing softly in a morning stupor as he does so. She raises the piping hot mug of whatever this odd Nevarran beverage is to her lips and blows, catching the reflection of another woman’s face in the black surface of the liquid as she does so.

It’s strange, this drink; dark and opaque, it was brought to the lounge of their suite just past dawn this morning by a servant. She wrinkles her nose as she takes a sip; it’s earthy, but not in the same way that tea is: It tastes somewhat burnt and a bitterness lingers on her tongue after she swallows. Overall, though, it is not unpleasant. Different, yes. She wonders if they have it in the Imperium as well. She’s had two refills already; she feels peculiar.

She covers her mouth with the back of her hand and coughs quietly, bracing her shoulders and keeping her breaths small so as not to alert Dorian. When she regains control over her breathing, she sighs and drops her hand to the railing of the balcony, using it to support her as she stares out over the plains, waiting for her head to stop spinning.

 _This isn’t getting better._ She thinks, drawing another sip of warm liquid from the mug; blessedly it assuages her raw throat.

An unsavory conclusion, but one that she can no longer avoid. Ever since she had woken the other night coughing up blood, her condition had not improved. The blood typically only came at night, or early in the morning, but she been plagued by cold sweats and periods of faintness at least thrice since: She’d nearly toppled over upon rising from the dinner table last night.

Luckily for her, Lady Trevelyan was gifted at the fine art of dismissal.

“Would you look at that, dear cousin?” She breathed, gripping the back of her chair while she caught her breath and glanced around at the worried faces surrounding her. “On the move for only _four_ days and I’ve completely lost my head for wine!” She laughs breathlessly at herself and is relieved when Dorian and the staff present follow her lead and laugh too.

She may be ill, but she’s not about to put the burden of knowing that on Dorian: He’s concerned enough about her as it is. Too many other things hang in the balance right now, and a sick elf is among the least important of them. What mattered now was getting to Minrathous, getting established, and learning as much as she possibly could in a very short time. Next would be to find Solas’ people, drive them away and… and… well. The rest could come later, she decided: If her suspicions were correct, she would need to prepare to wander around some elven ruins herself.

“Cousin!” She calls lightly. “I am ready to depart. I’ll head down to the carriage and ensure everything is ready for our journey. Would hate to miss anything because we were in a rush due to your primping.” The tone works well enough, and the sentiment is there, but she rolls her eyes at the delivery of it as she turns from the veranda; being Evelyn Trevelyan requires a mincing of words that she has always had little patience for. Speaking like a noblewoman to a stranger isn’t so daunting, but it feels alien and strange speaking to her best friend in a manner that she is so unaccustomed to.

“You think you’re clever dear Evelyn, but where you have assuredly dressed for appearances alone, you will be eating your words when you learn that I have dressed for both appearance _and_ comfort.” His retort is muffled by the door between them, but the hint of amusement is impossible to miss. He isn’t wrong either: She constantly catches herself absently fiddling with ties or tugging at the restrictive bodice that she’s been shoved into. Beyond that, she isn’t sure if the shortness of breath she’s experiencing is due to the corset, or something far more concerning.

“We shall have to compare our levels of comfort later then,” She replies, pulling a pair of lace gloves over her hands and retrieving her staff, (a handsome instrument crafted from mahogany and polished cherry wood. Perhaps a bit ostentatious for El’una’s tastes, but it does suit Lady Trevelyan quite well.) She taps the end of it on the floor twice, and wriggles her fingers around the grip, testing for the most comfortable place to hold it: New staves require breaking in and this one was already unruly to boot. Most staves became malleable by their owners in short order: the components of the item that best channel the Fade need to develop a feel and understanding for the person using it; how they interacted with the magic they were trying to pull through.

She hadn’t much of a chance to use this one so far, due to being safe on either a boat or in a carriage, but it felt stranger to her than any other staff she’d ever owned. There was a restlessness in the wood almost as though it itched to move away from her touch at a molecular level. It wasn’t unlike the sensation of drawing one's hand over something that is statically charged: The air around it and the wood itself… prickled. If she could sum it up in any hypothesis, she would guess that the material of the staff knew that she had a far deeper and more different connection to the Fade and thus was unable to properly latch on to her intent.

It was naturally confused. Poor thing.

It was mildly inconvenient and uncomfortable to be in close proximity to something that seemed to be constantly humming with static electricity, but the staff was purely for aesthetics and it was a necessity for that reason alone. She didn’t even need to cast with it if push came to shove; she would be able to make it look like she was casting with it, and that would be good enough.

“Good morning, Lady Trevelyan.” The steward stationed outside their suite greeted, tilting at the waist into a polite bow. El’una dips into a feminine little bow of her own. “I trust you slept well and that everything was to your liking and that of Magister Pavus?”

She closes the door behind her, being very, very careful of the fingers on her left hand.

“Everything was splendid. Your establishment does one’s first visit to Nevarra great credit. I am only sad for the fact that I am unable to stay longer.” She treats the well groomed steward to a tight and diplomatic smile that reaches her eyes and fills them with warmth. Her staff is raised over her head and slung over her shoulder. “I will make a point of returning.” She promises. “There is much of Nevarra I would like to know.”

“And of course, you will always be welcomed, My Lady.” The steward says with a smile of his own. She stiffens when a gloved hand touches the small of her back; non-magic collides with magic. She inhales through her nose as the steward guides her down the opulent hallway towards the windowless lobby. Harmless as his touch is, it tests the fragile material of the illusion and El’una forces herself to remain smiling as she silently deepens her connection to the Fade.

At one point as they are nearing the end of her stroll, the raised heel of one of her boots (which she despises,) catches on the lip of a stone tile and she nearly falls apart. She takes the opportunity during her recovery from the trip to physically make a grab at the magic she can feel in the air. Her fingers swim through the invisible substance and she clumsily sweeps her hand towards her chest, outwardly appearing to clutch herself in shock but in reality, she is tangibly manipulating the ever-present and ancient magic that lives everywhere. She thinks she’s managed to hold reins on the illusion, but she is quite sure she faltered slightly. She sees confusion ghost over the face of the steward and she reacts quickly.

“My word!” She declares, “My most _sincere_ apologies, ser. I… I saw something flit across the sun. Did you see it too? Everything became so dark for an instant and I’m afraid it gave me a fright! I have heard of dragons in Nevarra...”

“Yes.” The steward said, still looking rather disturbed. “I thought I saw… something. Very ah… strange…” He trails off lamely and is now glancing around the raised lobby, eyes scanning the ceiling for an answer.

Not wanting to wait around for the steward to have anymore time to think about the dark haired elf that had flitted instantaneously in and out of existence before his eyes, El’una clears her throat and pushes on towards the open doors of the inn where she can see Dorian’s carriage waiting outside.

She reaches down the front of her dress after the steward assists her into the vehicle and withdraws a gold coin.

“My deepest gratitude to you and your staff.” She says, pressing the coin into the man’s hand.

“You’re… you’re very welcome, Lady Trevelyan.” He says, closing his fingers around the gold piece, still looking rather bemused. “Ah! Yes. Your staff!” He jumps slightly, and hastily passes it to her remembering that he offered to hold it as she made herself comfortable in her seat. “So sorry!”

“No harm done.” She smiles, though she is having sincere doubts about what effect the entire spectacle has had on this man’s state of mind. She jumps now as a hand clasps the man’s shoulder from behind and he nearly leaps out of his jerkin.

“All hands on deck, man.” Dorian says amicably.

“Magister Pavus!” The steward gasps, now physically clutching at his heart. “I hope you take no affront at my decorum. I think I have… taken ill.” He explains, clearly scrambling for some excuse for the very odd day that has leapt out at him.

Dorian raises an eyebrow at the steward. “None taken. I can see you work hard. Best take care of yourself.” He gives the steward a wink and tosses him a gold coin as well before clambering into the carriage next to El’una. “Good day to you. Thanks again. Please bill the Magisterium for our stay!” He reaches across El’una’s lap and pulls the carriage door shut. He taps the roof of the carriage with the butt of his staff and the wheels lurch into motion.

It is a good five minutes until he speaks; he spends the initial part of their journey shuffling a stack of papers around, organizing them and swapping them with one another before he finally sits back and stuffs them in the pocket down the front of his robes.

“Now,” he begins. “What in the name of Andraste’s flabby thighs did you do to that man? I might be wrong, but I distinctly caught a whiff of urine on the morning breeze.”

El’una felt colour rise in her cheeks. “I… I slipped. He touched my back and in an effort to maintain the glamour I tripped over a tile and I think… I think the illusion fell apart for a moment. I managed to recover not a second later, but I think he caught a blinks-worth of a glimpse of someone who was definitely not a Trevelyan. Or human.” She groans and lets her head fall back; it hits the wall of the carriage with a dull thud. “I could have ruined everything. Over what? A fucking servant?” She hisses in annoyance.

Dorian shrugs. “I wouldn’t fret over it, El’una. He’s well paid and aside from that, well treated. He has no reason to betray you.”

El’una feels herself glaring and she tries to take solace in his words but finds herself unable to: Solas has spies everywhere. In a matter of years he amassed a network of spies to rival Leliana’s own, and there was no way of knowing that he didn’t have humans on his payroll too. Her stomach feels upset; a side effect from indulging in so much of that dark drink earlier, she supposes.

“I made a huge mistake. We’re not even in the Imperium yet and I’ve already blown my cover once.” Her hands shake and her tongue feels dry as panic sets in: Have I damned myself from the start? She wonders.

Dorian _tsks_ , still calm. Still relaxed.

“Well what would you propose we do about it? Turn around, go back and kill the man in broad daylight because he may become a threat to your secrecy? A steep price that is not worth the trouble. Or bloodshed.”

“You’re right.” El’una sighs, staring out the window of the carriage as it spirits them northwards. “I’ll never see him again. It’ll be fine.” She turns her gaze to Dorian and treats him with a genuine smile. “Thank you, Dorian.”

“You can always count on me to have the best advice.” He reminds her, moving to the bench a few paces away, against the wall. He stretches out on it and an arm dangles off the edge of it, trailing onto the floor. “If you’ll excuse me, now. I’ve been wearing a disguise of my own this morning: I have an incessant headache from all the wine last night. I intend to sleep for the foreseeable future.”

“Of course.” El’una smiles indulgently and returns to staring out the window until she can hear Dorian snoring softly. She takes a few quiet steps closer to him and peers at him from above for a few moments so that she can be sure he’s really asleep. When she’s satisfied that he is, she inches towards the small drawing table in the corner and stealthily withdraws a sheet of parchment from the drawer.

 _Leliana,_ she scribes in her characteristically narrow, gangly scrawl. _Steward at the Caspinain Springs Inn in Nevarra. I believe he caught a glimpse of me._

_He is a risk I cannot allow, though I have no doubt of his good nature._

~~Accident~~

_Disappearance._

Satisfied with the brevity of the order but not with the nature of the order itself, she stashes the quill and inkwell and ties the scroll to the ankle of the raven sitting in a cage next to the desk.

“Shhh.” She implores, as it flaps quietly at her intrusion into its space. It rasps quietly at her demand but allows her to follow through with her task, hopping obediently onto her outstretched arm when she is complete. She holds a finger up to her lips as she crosses the room as quietly as possible to the window of the carriage. A quick glance over her shoulder confirms that Dorian is still snoozing soundly, and with a hurried movement, she tears the window open and more or less heaves the crow out of it. She winces and hears its angry protests fade into the distance as the carriage continues on and she slams the window shut just as Dorian bolts up from the bench.

“What?!” He snarls, not keen on the manner of his waking.

“Sorry.” El’una says still grimacing, though she is seated primly in the same place as before. “Bird cage broke open and  the thing crashed against the side of the carriage. I opened the window to let it out, but the wind caught on the glass and made even more noise. Did you sleep well?” She finishes with a question in order to detract from any he might have.

“I did.” He said flatly, staring at the empty cage.

El’una coughs lightly.

There is blood behind her smile.

  
  
  
  
  
  



	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do we consciously choose to mislead and lie to the ones we care about?
> 
> Absolutely.
> 
> That's free will.

“You’re _what_?” Dorian hisses through clenched teeth.

“Dying.” She repeats with a level of calm she had not thought herself capable of: This is the first time she’s verbalized the suspicion that had been nagging her for days. Grateful for the hue of the dress she’s wearing, she wipes her chin with the sleeve. “I’m pretty sure, yeah.”

“How?” Dorian demands incredulously; she smiles wryly. Dorian is dry and aloof, but when he truly cares about something, he has a fiery temper: It is plain to her that she has set a spark to it with her admission. Well… that and the considerable amount of blood that had oozed from between her teeth and dribbled down her chin when she smiled at him moments earlier.

That was when he demanded to know what the fuck was going on.

“I’m ill.” She says. “‘We don’t _all_ get run through with swords or fall in a blaze of glory so that we may be forever revered as heroes -- We get sick; we die. Is it really that surprising?” She laughs blackly at her words: She would love nothing more than to sob at the truths that leave her mouth: It feels like a massive and inappropriate disconnect exists between how she’s fronting this information and how it really makes her feel. In a way it’s extremely liberating to finally accept that which she has suspected for a time.

Dorian shoots to his feet and begins angrily pacing the carriage, raking both his hands through his perfectly coiffed hair. “You’ve not even seen a healer!” He points out. “How can you be so sure that you aren’t just a bit under the weather?”

She regards him kindly, her heart hurting for the fact that there is little Dorian can do other than fret. “I’m coughing up blood, Dorian.” She says gently. “Not in small quantities either; it’s fresh and bright. My chest feels as though it’s in a vice much of the time. I…” She trails off and forces her gaze to the window that she had shoved a death-order through not five minutes earlier. “I’ve seen this illness in places I’ve visited, and I’m sure you have too: It runs rampant in slums and alienages where poverty dominates. And… I’ve not ever seen anyone recover once they get this sick.”

“Then how did _you_ get it?” He asks, and she fears that if he grits his teeth any harder, they’ll shatter. “Last time I checked, Skyhold wasn’t a filthy slum.”

She sighs now and busies her hands with removing her lace gloves. “I’ve heard of this illness laying dormant in a person for years at a time before it becomes active: That’s why it’s such a threat to large populations in close quarters: Man loses his whole family to the illness and in his grief he packs up and moves to a village fifty leagues away to start anew… one day, he starts experiencing the same shortness of breath and bloody coughing that his wife had. Before he realizes that this disease is the same that wiped out his family, he’s already spread it to half of the village.” Her bare fingers reach into a pocket at the waist of her dress. “On the topic of accidentally killing those you care about…” She tosses a small vial filled with opalescent green fluid at Dorian, who catches it and examines it against the light but takes a step forward, his mouth opening angrily.

“Oh no. I’m not playing into your trap. “Let’s throw Dorian a shiny bauble and distract him from the topic at hand.” Not a chance. First, you tell me why you’re insisting on continuing with this crusade if you’re dying!”

“Would you have me spend my last days on a comfortable feather mattress somewhere?” She retorts, her own voice rising now as she sits forward. “Because dying alone in a bed while the clock ticks on a world that will suffer more than I ever will seems fucking unappealing to me!” She says, not backing down under the heat of his displeasure. “I can at least keep going until I physically can’t draw breath. I owe that to this world, don’t you think? Besides, we can’t very well have Solas catching on to the fact that the only person capable of stopping him is dying of a common disease.”

Dorian utters a frustrated groan, wiping a hand over his face, clearly done with the subject. El’una hopes that he understands: She won’t get better, but she won’t go off and quietly die in a corner somewhere either. Solas’ Veil may be the cause of her mortality, but she would not die lamenting its consequence. “This is…?” He demands, holding up the vial.

“Choke.” She answers, leaning back and crossing her legs at the ankles.

“That was uncalled for.” Dorian glares.

“That’s what it’s called.” She explains. “It’s a Dalish tincture that my clan used to make good money off of in larger cities. If you’ve been exposed to the city illness but haven’t started exhibiting symptoms, you can imbibe it and it will render any latent presence of the disease harmless, so long as you take it as soon as you can after exposure.” She notes Dorian’s firm stare, “Meaning I’m out of luck, my friend. That won’t do me any good. Best if you take it.”

“Choke?” He says, glowering at the vial, outwardly cooled but still pouring off waves of contained anger into the carriage. “You lot couldn’t have come up with a less repulsive name for it?”

She giggles then. “In elven it’s known as _sahtla_ … which means choke.”

“Again, the question begs to be answered; why?”

“Because it tastes like death.” She notes with a joyless smile. “It’ll prevent you from catching the city illness, but it’ll also be the worst tasting thing you’ve ever put in your mouth.”

Dorian turns the vial in his fingers and hums quietly as he examines the milky green substance within. “What is it made from?”

“A decoction of materials that are both expensive to purchase and difficult to come by in the wild: Clan Lavellan’s worst kept secret.”

“Hence why this is not a widely known therapy for a disease that kills thousands each year.” Dorian notes, his left eyebrow inching up his forehead. “People in cities would be clamouring over themselves to have this. You could save countless lives with this.” There is a hint of challenge to his statement and El’una knows that he is not impressed by the fact that clan Lavellan has not made this treatment a mass-produced salvation for many.

“Yes… well. The humanitarianism is noble in sentiment, but there are only so many in clan Lavellan, and Dalish stubbornness has prevented the greater good from being served in more ways than this.” She stretches out across the bench now, swinging her feet up and crossing one leg over the other as she begins pulling a forget-me-not into existence. “Use Choke to help those we can in the cities and towns we visit? Sure. Those who can afford it. The people who could afford to purchase our small stocks were typically Chantry sisters or healers; people who worked directly with the destitute but had the money behind their cause that would protect them. Find a way to mass-produce enough of the tincture to provide to an entire city so that the disease may be wiped out indefinitely?” She shakes her head, bitter at the truth that she had once fully bought into; as guilty as any of the rest of the clan. “That would require contracting enough materials and people to produce so much. Needing other people requires trusting them and passing on the recipe for the tincture, giving them an opportunity to betray us: “ _Dalish knowledge must remain with the Dalish_ ,” was the commonly repeated line.” She lays the pristine forget-me-not in her lap and begins weaving another without pause, enjoying the absent-minded distraction that creation magic entails. “So when demand became too high, we stopped selling it. Kept the formula only for ourselves in the event we ever visited an area where the city illness flourished.”

“Let me guess,” Dorian began, sitting once again on his own bench and sinking back into the plush velvet material. “You find yourself in your predicament today because you ventured into one of these said places and met some sad little urchin who stole your heart and inclined you to sacrifice your last vial of Choke for his benefit rather than your own longevity?”

Evelyn Trevelyan stares across the carriage at Dorian like he’s simple.

“No.” She remarks, her nose wrinkling slightly, “Come, Dorian. You know me better than that: While I wish I could tell you a brave and heroic tale about how I surrendered my very last vial of Choke to someone who needed it more than myself, that would be an outrageous lie and would do very little to paint over the truth of the matter which is that...  I forgot it. I was seperated from my clan in a quarantined city for over a fortnight and by the time I got past the city walls the window of time that would have allowed me to sidestep contamination had already closed. That was… oh over five years ago now. I thought I’d been lucky enough to avoid the disease, but… apparently not.”

“You mean to tell me that you are going to die in the foreseeable future; a messy and unpleasant death at that; because you forgot to make sure you had your miracle potion on hand before you went into a city and caroused with a pile of sick orphans?”

“Don’t redden your face on my behalf.” She says snidely. “Like I said before: Not all deaths are heroic and not all of us fall on swords. Imagine my surprise when people started calling me _Herald of Andraste_ and proclaiming that I was the fated elf poised to save the world: I’ve no business with lofty titles like that. Or maybe I do. Morons can be heroes, I suppose…” She trails off and bursts into a bout of laughter mostly because she feels like it’s the only thing she can do right now: She always has confronted fear with joy; a reaction that has time and time again proved disconcerting by those around her. El’una fondly remembers Cassandra looking like she would love nothing more than to smack her with the flat of her sword when she toppled over in a giggle fit at the sight of the first dragon she fought.

“I’m still furious with you.” He reminds her sternly. “How long did you plan on keeping this little secret to yourself?”

El’una balks; she honestly doesn’t have an answer for that. On one hand, she thought she might tell him to tell him once they arrived at Minrathous; it was after all a densely populated area, and she’d be loathe to leave death in her trail. On the other hand, it occurred to her to not tell him at all; trick him into taking the Choke, and flee from the oppressive capital of the Imperium at the first opportunity that presented itself: She is very aware that she is living on borrowed time, and delicately using Evelyn Trevelyan’s status to manipulate the Magisterium will require patience that she no longer has given her current condition -- she knows she could be dead within a month; there is no time for planning and plotting.

“I… I’m sorry Dorian. I should have told you sooner. It would have become clear enough eventually despite my efforts. It was a bit foolish of me to try and hide it. I thought I would tell you once we arrive in the Imperium. We’ll have to come up with a way to keep me from getting everyone around your estate sick.” There is a small pile of forget-me-nots heaped on the fine red fabric of her gown now; she’s only just realized she made so many.

“And how do you propose doing this?” He asks, waving the vial of Choke at her. “You’ve already mentioned that this is rather tricky to make.”

“Well,” she says, staring at the splash of flowers on her lap, “I suppose it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to assume that I could compose the ingredients myself, and I’ll need an alchemy station at my disposal once we reach your estate. Give me some time and I should be able to create a large enough batch to cover your people… and more.”

“Your altruism is remarkable,” Dorian quips, “but do you really have the time to sit in a dark room concocting tinctures?”

El’una shrugs and focuses on her hand where something brown and slimy is twisting and materializing. “In exchange for your hospitality and the space to work, I’ll leave the recipe with you. Put it to use however you wish when I’m gone. I refuse to occupy your space and cause a plague within Minrathous. Besides… if my clan refuses to do something good with this, perhaps you can. I’m sure the city illness is as common in Tevinter as it is in the rest of Thedas.” The pungent odour of the root hits her nose; _there we go… that seems right_. She holds the freshly created plant-matter out to Dorian. “It’ll be quite simple once I have all the materials. The hardest to come by is this; slickwyrm vine. Spent a third of my childhood sloughing through dangerous bogs looking for this stinky weed.”

Dorian’s gaze moves from the disgusting pile of vines in El’una’s hand to the pale green and relatively harmless looking tincture in his hand. “That goes into this?” He asks, his nose wrinkling. “It smells like rotting flesh.”

El’una nods. “Tastes like it too.” She mentions. “The formula calls for star anise to cancel out some of the flavour, but there’s no avoiding it completely.” Her eyes drift to the vial still clenched in his palm. “Well? Bottom’s up. I already explained to you that time is of the essence with Choke.”

Dorian looks hesitant and El’una understands why; he’s never been someone to willingly indulge in something that he knows will not taste amazing. Understanding this, she sets her feet on the floor and stands, a cascade of flowers skimming down the front of her skirt and onto the ground.

“Allow me to have some wine ready for you.” She offers, crossing the carriage to the small but amply stocked bar set into the wall. “You must keep it down, no matter how bad it tastes. It won’t upset your stomach due to the elfroot and ginger, but the taste might incline you to be sick anyway.”

“I can barely contain my excitement.” Dorian sighs, uncorking the vial as El’una uncorks a bottle of Antivan red. She pours a goblet for each of them and collects them (being very careful with the one in her left hand.)

“Don’t say I never did anything for you.” She smirks as he accepts the wine from her fingers. “What shall we drink to?”

He considers her for a moment and the carriage seems to go very quiet: It’s all out in the open now and there are no more secrets between them. She’s admitted to not only herself, but to her best friend that she’s not long for this world and despite the urgency of her current task it seems appropriate that in this moment they are both standing still and silent, awash in the reality of the situation.

“Please pick something to drink to before I start crying.” She says, breaking the silence when her eyes begin to prickle.

Dorian regards her for one moment more, his mouth set in a firm line as he raises his vial.

“To your good health and rich life.” He says solemnly, tapping her goblet with the vial before tilting the Choke to his lips and tossing his head back and emptying it before quickly taking a long swallow of wine to chase it.

El’una drains her goblet in a single go.

_No point in giving up hope just yet. No point in dying old in bed._

_Might as well get shitfaced in the meantime._

* * *

She falls asleep after she and Dorian have polished off the Antivan red and then another. They play cards into the evening and enjoy each other’s company despite the concern that Dorian fails to mask every time her breath falls short or pain crosses her face.

She realizes that she wouldn’t have it any other way: To be able to present that vulnerability; to lay bare the fact that she is going to die soon somehow enriches every happy moment that passes: Each grin, each bawdy joke or song sung in drunken bravado seems to carry so much more weight than they did previously… they feel like more. They mean more.

Her dreams however, hold a notably different tone despite being vague, fuzzy constructs of inebriation. There are fleeting and insubstantial moments of bright, bright white and she there appears to be someone else with her on what she can only assume is a bed. Might be a unicorn or a cloud. Everything is so distorted here. Distorted but… good. Her heart races in a way it hasn’t in months and she feels powerful and whole.

She has a left arm in this dream.

She glances over her shoulder and yes, someone is definitely on this brilliant white surface with her but who? Their face is indiscernible and she wonders why this person - who for all other appearances is sleeping - is sharing this space where things feel so simple and amazing.

_I want them to wake up._

She reaches over and the living fingers of her left hand dance cautiously over their ankle; a test. One failed: The figure does not stir from their slumber and she finds herself overwhelmed with the desire to wake them: There’s so much that they are missing. If she could only wake them, then they could see too.

She scoots up the white, close enough to the figure that she can rock onto her knees, grip their shoulder and give them an exploratory shake.

They continue to sleep, or lay, or whatever it is they’re doing, and she lets out a huff of air: Can’t they see? She can’t explain how good it feels here. It just needs to… be.

She sits back on her heels and thinks, finding it difficult to arrange clear thought in this bright and insubstantial place. The eyes of whoever is next to her stare blankly into space and she grits her teeth at the inclination to just make them… feel.

A glimpse of colour catches her eye and she lifts wispy hands to see that her fingers and palms are somehow bright and shining red. Her ears ring as discomfort and confusion start battling the euphoria and she looks around to see that much off the white is now also covered in red.

Dripping even.

She reaches down to the indistinguishable person that lays at her knees and realizes with horror that _they_ are red now too. She clutches at their front and the red squishes between her fingers.

She shakes them gently and they do not move. Verging on panic, she runs her red right hand over her face and into her hair, leaving cold, sticky tracks behind. She doesn’t know who this is or what is happening, but she’s becoming more and more intimate with the knowledge that they are not asleep.

_Did I do this? Did I…? When?_

She beats their chest with her hands and red flies into the air, splattering her face. They don’t move or stir and she puts her face close to theirs and shouts.

Nothing.

Despite the very real terror this dream is becoming, she still can’t help but feel an overwhelming sensation of accomplishment and pride despite all the red and the probably dead person sharing her space. More upset by the fact that they are missing out than the probability that they are dead, she collapses on the red and white next to them and entreats the still form for an answer.

“Why don’t you feel? How can you not feel? Why won’t you move?” She stares longingly at the face that belongs to no one in particular and says, “I just… I just can’t _explain_ how good it feels.”

This justification does little to stem the red that now dominates the white and El’una is more or less awash in it.

Curiously this does not bother her in the slightest - her primary source of irritation and concern is the prone figure she is curled around and as she basks in the warm touch of the red. It’s just… nice.

She sighs and flips over, laying on her back as she stares at the white above her.

“I would kill to make you feel.” She claims exasperatedly to her silent companion.

_You’re really not the killing type._

Her head snaps sideways; had they finally spoken?

Unease grows; blank eyes continue to stare into space.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's in our nature to fight for our freedom. 
> 
> That doesn't necessarily mean it is a joy to win.

The carriage jerks to a halt and she is awakened, emitting a small cry of shock as she crashes off the bench, onto the floor. Mind still reeling, she pushes herself up with a groan.

“Dorian.” She whispers into the darkness; the hour is late and the candles must have burned away as the pair of them slipped into a drunken sleep. “Dorian, why have we stopped?” She receives no answer apart from Dorian’s soft snores: He’s still out. “Dorian.” She repeats, getting to her feet and inching closer to the source of his breathing.

She staggers forward suddenly and is nearly thrown off of her feet when the carriage lurches forward. Bottles and vials rattle in their shelves, and there is a loud thud on the ceiling of the carriage - presumably one made by a boot - followed by a brief scuffle.

“Come on out here, then!” Comes the muffled demand, apparently from the stomper. “Got you surrounded. Got a blade pressed to your man’s neck. Best start makin’ moves ‘fore I decide an’ bleed ‘im!”

Highwaymen.

Wonderful.

She stares around in the darkness and swears softly as she works out her next step; Dorian is fast asleep, and knowing him well enough to understand how he functions immediately after waking, she knows it won’t do her any good to rouse him anyway - she’s in this alone. Deciding quickly, she takes quick inventory of her illusion and deems it acceptable before sweeping her staff into her hand, ignoring the pervasive prickle of the unhappy instrument.

Carefully, she peers out the window set in the door of the carriage, and though it is dark, the moon lends just enough light to see the forms of at least half a dozen mounted riders encircling this side of the vehicle - there are likely more on the other side.

“Do not harm the driver.” She says through the door, making herself known. “I’m coming out.”

Cautiously, slowly, so as not to alarm the criminals, she pushes open the door and hops onto the ground, being mindful to hold her staff aloft in a gesture of truce as she turns around to face the bandit standing on the roof.

“Let him free.” She commands, eyes flicking to the trembling man held fast by the bandit.

His grip does not loosen, nor does the blade at the innocent man’s throat move.

“Uh-uh.” Says the bandit, shaking his head. He pulls the knife away from the driver’s neck for only a moment, to point it at her, “Not till’ you drop that staff.”

No use arguing; he might have asked an armed knight to drop his dining utensils, for all the staff matters.

“Of course.” She concedes politely, extending her arm and dropping the staff far enough away that there is no chance of her reaching it. “Now let him free.” She repeats, clinging to the sliver of hope that entreats her to believe they have a chance of getting out of this without bloodshed; as far as they know, she is traveling with only this man as her company.

“You alone in there?” The bandit snaps, stomping his foot on the roof again as if El’una had forgotten what they were talking about.

“Of course.” She answers.

“You ain’t from the Imperium.” The bandit observes, squinting down his nose at her through the dark. “Too fair.”

“Correct, ser. I’m from the Marches, passing through to visit my dear cousin in the Magisterium.” She explains, deliberately relating herself to a Magister in the hope that it would give this company pause.

Not likely.

She notes the man’s pointed ears for the first time, and in the insubstantial light she can just make out what appears to be a brand on the left side of his exposed neck. This close to the walls of Minrathous, it becomes clear to her that these highwaymen are escaped slaves.

Her heart twinges.

“Will you release my driver now?” She asks coolly, keeping tabs on the bandit who is circling behind her on foot.

The lead man tilts his head, cracks his neck, shifts around and wiggles the toes of his boots as he considers.

“Nah.” He whispers into the night, and the silver blade is pulled across the driver’s throat.

El’una gasps and takes a step forward, but says nothing as the poor man’s body slumps wetly onto the roof. She tries to ignore the heinous gasping sounds he makes as his blood pools and spurts.

“Search the cart!” The lead man cries to his company before turning his stare back on El’una. “Wanna be sure the shem is telling the truth before I get started.”

There is a greasy and depraved quality to his gaze, and El’una bites her lip to stop her retort as two hands wrap around the tops of her arms. Instead, she whips her head to face the bandit that is approaching the carriage door, where Dorian sleeps only feet away.

“I would not do that.” She warns.

The bandit halts.

Good.

“Shut it, you rich slag!” The lead man barks from up top. Her face whirls to meet his stare once again. “Tell ya what; first we’re gonna rob you blind, and then, I’m gonna fuck you bloody. In the meantime, you’re going to stay good an’ hush, aye?”

Her ears rush with blood and her face feels warm. She manages to award herself another step forward despite the strong grip of the individual holding her.

“Bad things have happened to you in your lifetime, da’len, but that does not excuse you to -” She is cut off by a sharp whack to the side of her head from the bandit holding her. Her ears ring and indignant fury comes to her easily. Without a thought spared, she wheels around to face the one who harmed her.

“That was not wise.” She remarks, meeting his eyes in the fleeting instant before they begin to bubble and smoke within their sockets. Fingers loosen from her arms, and the bandit staggers backwards, clutching at his ruined face as his moans gain strength and rapidly evolve into screams.

“Kill the bitch!” The bandit on the roof bellows, drawing his sword.

El’una is looking around her, surveying what she is up against and internally planning which steps to take in order to ensure complete annihilation of the threat. The precise moment that shadows start moving towards her in the dark, the carriage door bursts open to reveal a very dishevelled looking Magister, who despite the wayward locks of hair pointing in every direction, is holding his staff, and looks incredibly ready to fight.

“What the fuck is going on?!” He hollers, and El’una decides in that instant that he would do better to stay inside the carriage. A wall of force strong enough to rock the carriage onto two wheels is leveled towards him and the door is ferociously slammed shut. She is relieved and even a bit surprised that the horses do not spook much apart from some upset neighing and rearing.

“Stay put!” She shouts, ducking around a blade that is aimed for her left shoulder. She turns on the spot and seizes the arm wielding the sword while simultaneously lifting a localized barrier to deflect another blow.

The magic comes easily to her, despite this being her first taste of real combat in months. She walks a delicate balance between terrified and utterly exhilarated: Not having the physical heft of a staff in her hands leaves her feeling rather exposed on the battlefield, but as she moves, she appreciates the freedom and range of motion she has without one.

The assailant whose wrist she still grips tightly in her fingers is struggling against her, and she concludes that she has only seconds to decide his fate. Action determined, she grins and roughly shoves the man backwards. His face pulls into an expression of bewilderment when he lifts his blade to launch a counterattack only to see that his sword has been transfigured into a simply splendid bouquet of wildflowers. By the time he is able to remove his eyes from the splendorous splash of botany before him, El’una is holding a blade of her own now, those hers glows faintly and might be translucent.

It is also between his ribs.

She twists it for good measure, watching the light in his eyes dim before she slides him off the blade and turns around in time to volley another set of swings aimed at her.

It is strange, not having the weight of a staff to leverage off the swings of her magical blade, but it not difficult to get back into the easy rhythm of a good blade fight; block, parry, duck - swing.

Eviscerate.

A blade flies towards her shoulder and she steps back, turning slightly and then rocking her weight forward again. Another gust of force accompanies her outstretched hand and her newest foe is blasted off his feet with enough impact that El’una thinks she hears a few of his ribs crack as he is sent skidding away into the darkness.

She breathes deeply, properly now, despite her condition. She’s not sure exactly why; perhaps the adrenaline, or perhaps it is because she is so in tune with the magic that surrounds her. A gale that was not there before is ripping at her hair and the fabric of her dress, and she cleanly ducks and weaves between those who would kill her, leaving a circle of corpses around her until there are no more swords to splinter, nor any more skin to melt.

Her bloody dance comes to an end with her facing the bandit on the roof, who apparently could not find it within himself to come to the aid of his kin. She spits out a bit of blood and is unsure if it is hers or somebody else’s.

Her sword is raised towards the bandit.

He licks his lips and his throat bobs as he stares at her in what could only be described as raw bewilderment.

“I am sorry this happened to you.” She says. The luminescent sword wavers and briefly emits a golden aura before becoming a small knife, identical to the one the bandit owns.

He opens his mouth to respond, but manages to issue only a damp gurgling sound, due to the blade shaped piece of magic that is protruding neatly from his Adam’s apple. He keels off the top of the carriage and out of sight and El’una does not stop to examine the details of the bloody scene she has constructed; the scent of death is thick on the air, and the sound of screaming, panicked horses paints a vivid enough picture.

“It’s safe now, Dorian.” She calls towards the carriage, lifting the hem of her skirt and stepping over bodies until she locates her staff. “We’ll have to ride the rest of the way.” She announces when she finally sees his head protruding from the door. “You’re alright?” She asks, draping the staff over her shoulders and putting some of her hair back into the intricate plait it had slipped from.

“Despite being tossed around inside a carriage while it nearly flips and getting attacked in the dead of night by highwaymen, I appear to be fine.” He snaps, hopping out of the carriage and stooping next to the corpse of his driver, whose open neck wound gapes angrily at the sky. “He was a good man.” He remarks, his voice sullen. “Fortense was his name…” He reaches out and closes the man’s eyes.

“Mhmm.” El’una hums. “Can’t say I disagree with you. Just can’t help but wonder if he had any choice in the matter of his career path. Shame it ended like this.” She mutters darkly, crossing to the horses and starting the series of steps it would take to free them from their harnesses. She immediately regrets her words, but makes no apology for them; the escaped slaves wanted to kill her, yes, and in turn she had to preserve herself, but this is more defeating than anything.

“Leave it.” Dorian warns, catching on her embittered words.

El’una only shakes her head and walks around the carriage with the reins of one of House Pavus’ majestic stallions in hand. She passes them to Dorian with a fleeting glance and says, “There was no joy for me in what I just witnessed. These… corpses,” She gestures around, “were slaves. There’s no knowing how hard they fought to steal their freedom and how many were lost along the way.” For the first time she looks around properly at the slaughter. “I don’t imagine they had this in mind when they dreamt of _liberation_.”

Everything feels unbearably heavy for a moment, and for the first time, a disturbing thought pervades the raw determination that has carried her for the past months: What if this world is not worth saving? Perhaps Solas _should_ be allowed to tear down the Veil and purge the world of things of this like.

El’una clenches her jaw, grinds her teeth a little,  and hops onto the back of her own stallion, reining in the fidgeting beast as best she can and urging it north. Upon receiving a returned nod from Dorian, she digs her heels into the side of the animal and they speed into the darkness.

Blessedly, the weight of her thoughts are quickly swept away by the roaring wind in her ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slow update! Yikes!
> 
> If you've made it this far, I would like to sincerely thank you. I hope you're having a wonderful day/week/month/year/fleeting period of existence. Thanks for stickin' with me!


	11. Chapter 11

She hates it here.

Minrathous is stifling and humid. The sky of the city is consistently hazy due to the massive population and industry that predominate much of the south quarter, and it is never, ever quiet.

Aside from that, the food is too spicy, the halls of every building she’s been in smell overwhelmingly of patchouli (in order to cover the scent of the open corpse pits that lay beyond the city walls, she learns,) and of late, she is being stalked by a member of the Altus class who has a peculiar and unsettling habit of glaring at her suspiciously and hanging over her shoulder as she works in the alchemy lab Dorian has given her reign over. Considering the way things _work_ here in the Imperium, she has no place telling him to leave her to her task, and must instead put up with his hovering.

Then of course there’s the slavery.

She makes a point to avoid public appearance as often as possible, carving a very deliberate route from her chambers each morning directly to the lab: The less she sees of this place, the better, she decided on her third day. There’s nothing she can do about the slaves right now, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to deliberately expose herself to the reality of it all.

Blessedly, the Altus who has taken an interest in her does not deign to bring his slaves with him everywhere he goes, unlike some she’s seen.

The Altus’ name is Quintus Cassius and by her understanding, (and his own embellishment,) he comes from an ancient and well-blooded house. He is no Magister, but his father is in poor health and will likely die any day, opening a seat for the younger Cassius to claim.

He is not inherently terrible to be around; he is well learned and an incredibly talented mage from what El’una has seen, but he is insufferably vain despite having more than enough reasons to be.

Often accompanying him is his apprentice, who El’una finds considerably more intriguing.

The first time Quintus brought him into her stinky lab she had mistaken him for an elf through the cloudy fumes, and with a jolt of panic, thought that Quintus had finally become bold enough to bring a slave into her space. She knocked over five uncorked vials of Choke when she started, only realizing when the apprentice leapt to help her collect them that while his features were distinctly elven, his ears were rounded: He was of mixed blood.

“Feynriel is _homesick_ : When I told him that Magister Pavus was hosting his cousin from the Marches he practically begged to meet you.” Quintus explained as the young man blushed.

From then on, Feynriel accompanied Quintus during his daily visits to El’una’s lab. She assumed the reason the Altus kept coming back was because he was legitimately interested in watching her work, but she did not discount the possibility that he had ulterior motives.

Regardless, she caters to his curiosity and answers any questions he has about her process. After all, the entire point of doing this is to make Choke accessible to everyone.

Today only Feynriel visits her lab.

“Quintus’ father is having a bad day” The half elf explains, stepping into the lab and closing the door behind him, plunging the windowless room into darkness that is only dissuaded by the flickering lamps and burners around the lab - one imperative aspect of decocting Choke is that certain steps must be done in complete darkness.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” El’una says, looking up from the bowl of slickwyrm vine she is pulverizing. “Quintus seemed a bit less splendorous than usual, the past few days.” She observes.

“I don’t think it will be long now.” Feynriel says grimly.

“Well,” El’una sighs, returning to her task. “We all die eventually. It sounds like the Magister has lived a good and long life.”

“He did.” Feynriel agrees. “It was more than kind for him to take me in when I first arrived in the Imperium. I'll forever be grateful to the Cassius family.” He pulls up a stool and sits across from her place at the workbench. “I was terrified when I first left Kirkwall to come here.” He says. “Makes sense when you're no more than a lad, really.”

“What caused you to leave?” El’una asks, tapping the bowl on the hard surface it sits on so the mash of vines loosens up. “Was it the mage rebellion?”

Feynriel shakes his head and reaches over the table, grabbing his own mortar and pestle. “I left before then, thankfully. I…” He pauses, his hand hovering over the jar of vine. “Some people don’t see it at first, but I’m of mixed blood; my mother is Dalish, my father, Antivan.”

“Really?” El’una feigns surprise, but smiles. “So you left your clan?”

“Well… mother did. She raised me on her own in Kirkwall’s alienage. After a time it became clear that I could control magic, but… badly.” He chucks a damp wad of vines into his bowl and sets to crushing them. “It’s a very long story, but in the end, I wouldn’t have wound up here so that I may learn to use my magic if it weren’t for the help of an amazing woman.” He looks as though he is remembering something affectionately, by the way his lip quirks: She knows that look - Solas often wore a similar one.

“What was her name?” El’una asks, “How did she help?”

In the dim light, Feynriel’s cheeks flush slightly and he halts his task for a moment before turning his eyes down and returning to it with vigour.

“Uhm… you’re from Ostwick, right? You’ve probably heard of her… I understand she got considerably more famous after helping me. She’s Ferelden; Marian Hawke?”

El’una nearly bursts into laughter. Her snort is disguised as a hacked cough and she swallows the taste of blood: Of _course_ Marian would take pity on a half-breed kid mage living in an alienage.

“You knew The Champion of Kirkwall?” El’una asks, playing her part well. “Tell me true; is she as heroic as the stories make her out to be?”

Feynriel shifts in his stool and fidgets a little. “Well… you know what happened I’m sure. She saved Kirkwall from the Qunari and all, but I can’t speak to that considering I wasn’t there. Believable praise though: She saved me from The Circle, the Templars, and even a demon.”

Reflecting on his words, El’una thinks she can recall Varric elaborating on a story about this once, but the details are distant and difficult to hold on to.

“There’s a story to be told there.” She prods, smiling at the younger man as she scrapes the jellified vines into the still behind her. “Would you pass me that bottle of alcohol?” She asks, pointing with a slimy finger.

Feynriel grabs the bottle and uncorks it before passing it to her.

“They don’t like to talk about it much over here, but before I came to Minrathous, I spent some time with the Dalish clan around Kirkwall. I guess the elven people are naturally more inclined to Dreaming magic. It soon became clear that I’m not just inclined to it; I’m exceptional at it. Don’t remind Quintus it’s likely because of my elven blood, though.” He says, shooting her a mischievous smirk.

El’una’s hand stills; alcohol stops pouring and she blinks at the fair man across the workbench.

“You are… you’re Somniari?”

“The Tevinter like to think they invented that word, but they actually stole it from the Dalish, did you know that?” He asks casually. “ _Somniar_ means dream.”

Her heart races and she forces herself to speak. “No.” She lies, shaking her head. “No… I didn’t know that. I had no idea.” She finishes measuring and pouring the alcohol into the still and replaces the bottle on the workbench.

“So you came here to study Dreaming?” She asks, hopefully sounding reasonably measured and not as rattled and tingling as she feels.

“Yes. Dreamers are rare, even in Tevinter, but the theory is ancient and there is knowledge everywhere here. Quintus is no Dreamer, but he has the best understanding of the theory itself, so I consider myself to be immensely fortunate to be under his tutelage.”

El’una hums and with a wave of her hand the burner under the still is lit. “I’ve been having strange dreams of late.” She begins, weaving the story from nothing as the words spill from her tongue: She needs to know if Feynriel can be trusted, or if he has already pledged unwitting allegiance to the only other Dreamer she knows of. “Perhaps you can help me better understand them?”

“Tell me of them.” Feynriel says, corking the bottle. “I’ll aid where I can.”

El’una draws a deep breath, though it hurts her to do so. “In my dream, I am on a silent battlefield; corpses litter the earth around me and I am the only person standing. The dead consist of humans, dwarves and Qunari, but there is an obvious lack of elves who have fallen. I feel like I am meant to be searching for something or someone: It is a very pressing and particular task that I am burdened with, but in waking I know not what I look for. After a time, the already smokey sky darkens and from the black clouds there is an enormous cracking sound. Moments later a massive wolf tears from the sky, rending and tearing the clouds with the claws as though they are made of paper. It crashes from the sky and lands on the ground and its paws striking the earth make the ground shake and crumble: The wolf is easily twice the size of a dragon. It has six red eyes and wicked fangs. It begins devouring the corpses of the fallen and for each body consumed, another falls from the hole in the sky.” She pauses to catch her breath and reaches for the jar of dried frangipani petals, tapping a small pile into her hand which she then drops into a clean bowl. “The bodies that fall from the sky are not the same as the bodies that are dead: They crash to the ground like the wolf, but they rise on two feet: They are all elves. They flock to the wolf and it licks them clean. It notices me every time, no matter what I do to avoid its eyes: It chases me, abandoning the elves from the sky so that it can pursue me across a battlefield that never ends. I always wake before it can catch me, but I’m terribly frightened of what might happen if it ever does.”

Feynriel draws a finger across his lips, considering.

“Most Dalish would consider it strange, and incredibly offensive to hear of a human woman having such vivid dreams of their gods.” He finally says. “Are you in any way familiar with the tales of Fen’Harel, Lady Trevelyan?”

El’una shrugs, “That’s The Dread Wolf, right?” She says, “I’ve had the name leveled at me before… usually followed by an insult of some kind. Ahhh… “ _Dread Wolf take you!_ ” I think the Dalish woman said to me when I accidentally ran into her on the street that one time. Sound familiar?”

Take. Took.

All the same at this point.

“The elven god of misfortune and trickery. It is an ill omen to dream of him at all, let alone consistently. There must be something very dark happening in your life, right now.” He says, looking at her sympathetically. “Aside from that I have no answers as to why Fen’Harel pursues you.”

“You’ve never dreamt of anything similar?” She prys.

Feynriel shakes his head. “Never. And I can’t say that I envy you.”

“You speak of the elven gods as though they are not your own, Feynriel. May I ask why?”

The man shrugs and scratches the side of his face. “Grew up in the city. Mum grew up with her clan, but I never saw any statues nor heard her say any prayers to the gods. I think she lost her faith after my father abandoned her. I suppose I was never exposed to the gods till my time spent with the Dalish, but by that point I had already seen too much darkness to have any faith that some ancient pantheon of noble gods was watching over me, let alone anyone else.”

There is an inward sigh of relief; she can glean no indication from what he has said that there is anything suspect going on. Besides, she’s heard of the mass exodus of elves around Thedas; if Feynriel belonged to Solas, he certainly wouldn’t be here, playing at student under a Magister’s son. He also seemed genuinely intrigued by her fictional description of the wolf, leading her to believe he hadn't run into any smooth-talking wolves in the Fade either.

An idea hits her then, and she realizes that Feynriel might be exactly the person she needs right now: She has closed the gap between herself and Solas considerably, and upon fulfilling her promise to Dorian she will set out to actually find his people in the Arlathan Forest. In the meantime, subtlety will be of the essence: She hasn’t truthfully dreamt of a wolf in a couple of months, but that does not mean that he isn’t _there -_ watching, listening, spying: He mustn’t know where she is or that she’s closing in on him. If given the chance to do so, she has no doubt that he will slip through her fingers like sand.

Dreams are difficult to control; she learned a good deal about them from Solas himself, but what he passed on was more practical experience in how to manipulate the Fade to one’s liking. What she desperately needed now was a way to keep her dreams guarded from him: Put up a wall of her own so that he may not come and go as he pleases, should he attempt it.

There is a problem, however, she notes: Feynriel, like everyone else, knows her as Evelyn Trevelyan. While she can adapt her surroundings to her liking, she has little faith that she will be able to effectively pull off a glamour in the Fade. She’ll have to tell him the truth if she wants to actively interact with him.

Or…

 _You dream_ loudly.

A distant reminder from what feels like a lifetime ago.

“Thank you for your input, Feynriel.” She smiles. “I feel just a little bit more at home, having someone else from the Marches nearby.” She screws the lid back on various jars and stands from the table, sweeping bits of herbs and crushed minerals off her skirts. “I think that’ll be all for today. The slickwyrm will need to sit in the still overnight, and my eyes are beginning to water from the fumes in here. I trust I’ll see you again tomorrow, with or without our friend?”

Feynriel grins broadly; she can tell that he is truly happy to have someone around who isn’t from the Imperium. It’s a shame that she isn’t actually from where he thinks she is… or is at all the person she is pretending to be, for that matter.

She gets the feeling that he of all people will understand.


	12. Chapter 12

She’s at a familiar camp in the Hinterlands.

She sits on a familiar log and stokes a familiar violet coloured fire.

Bull’s familiar snores float through the still night air.

She tilts her face to the sky and the same familiar aurora shines down on her with shades of blue and green.

The only thing missing is a familiar elf.

It has been a long time since she consciously endeavored to shape the Fade. She lost taste for it after Solas left her, and she strayed even further from controlling her dreams after their last meeting. For years now she has been content to let the Fade do what it would with her, lest she continue searching for a wolf and slip into a sleep she would never wake from.

There was a time when she was inspired to dream with a fervor that sent her tumbling to bed at an early hour each night so that she and her elf may embark on the wonderful adventures that only the Fade could offer.

There were long walks through ancient forests where the trees stretched infinitely skywards and had trunks so broad that it took over an hour to pace the circumference of only one.

Dangerous but titillating adventures were had; things that would have been terrifying in waking life were little more than exciting ways to pass the time and exercise talents that neither possessed in the waking world.

The Fade used to be a gauntlet of inspiration and joviality.

After Solas left it became a graveyard of broken memories and painful feelings.

She glances at the fire and it obediently becomes a friendly and very ordinary orange.

She wills Bull’s snores into silence, and they acquiesce, ceasing with only a thought.

Taking her time and regaining her legs for this sort of magic, she begins reshaping her pocket of the Fade, one small piece at a time, pulling at threads she knows, and tying them off with the trailing ends of things that are a mystery to her.

She assumes that hoping to find a Dreamer in the Fade is about as lofty as trying to find a needle in a haystack. Trying to track down Feynriel would  require gambling with time she doesn’t have, so she has decided on alternative plan.

It is a simple plan, and one that has been inspired by a remark from Solas that at the time she paid little heed to: Dream loudly.

Luring Feynriel to her place in the Fade is not her only goal, however. If he is to believe a random, crippled elf, there needs to be context to her request. There needs to be proof that she is not merely a strange passerby and that she is in fact the only hope their world has against the schemes of Fen’Harel.

She knows it’s dangerous.

She knows she’s putting a lot on the table.

She knows that she is playing with fire.

She doesn’t care.

Intent forms function in the Fade, and so with a considerable amount of it, she kicks the campfire over and sparks cascade into the air. They become fireflies and they swarm into the darkness.

Next, she lifts the sword that wasn’t in her hand a moment earlier and swings it at the nearest tent, slicing and rending the brown canvas until the structure is little more than a sad pile of broken stakes and tattered ribbons.

Blood rushes to her face as she settles into the abandon of the resentful fury that she has kept pent up like some sort of tamed monster for over two years now. She faces the sky and emits a shriek that is long and disparate; like a stained glass window shattered by a stone, the stunning aurora plummets to the earth, and the stars scatter from the sky like a collection of surprised roaches.

Whirling on the log that she and Solas once shared, she launches it into the darkness with a single hand and a snarled curse.

Panting, she looks down at the stack of parchment she holds in her hand; more than one sheet bears a portrait of her face. Others are lengthy letters composed of beautiful words.

She feels her heart speed up.

There is no longer room left for tears in her place in the Fade.

El’una tears at the mementos with her teeth and sets them aflame with a thought when she is no longer satisfied with shredding them. Her breath catches angrily on the enraged sobs that are rent from her as the glowing pieces of ash drift from her loosened fingers and once more a scream tears from her core as her muscles clench tight and her remaining hand balls into a quaking fist at her side.

“You dream loudly, El’una!” She bellows to no one, the muscles in her neck straining. “You’ve seen nothing yet!” She informs the darkness, and with a wave, the walls of the rotunda swing up around her. They last for only a moment, for she wastes little time blasting each stone panel to smithereens with great disdain (and perhaps a bit more satisfaction than she would ever admit.) “Could it be that The Dread Wolf fears a mortal?”

Something leaps at her from beyond the sad perimeter of light that the broken fire casts.

Her fingers find both fur and purchase. She follows the momentum and easily slams the wolf into the glowering embers of the fire. A knife is buried deep in the animal’s heart and its growls die as whimpers.

She is drenched in blood.

She wants more.

She straightens and turns around.

It worked.

“Stand, Strange Solas, and we will begin our transaction.” She mocks; he is there, on the other side of the ruined fire, dressed as simply as he was in the days when she thought she knew him. She tosses the knife in the air and catches it, adjusting her grip on the blade, her heart pounding furiously as she steps towards him. “No guise as a wolf this time, vhenan? No matter. I’ll gut an elf just as easily.”

Solas draws breath, opens his mouth - no sound comes out.

“I did not permise you to speak.” She grinds out, closing the distance between them and pressing the cold steel of the knife against his neck. “Not in this dream, Solas.” The blade scrapes softly against smooth skin and she pulls closer to the silent figure. “Shall I skin you alive?” She whispers. “Leave you to wake up quaking and raw? Hmmm?” She whirls away; the knife becomes a card. “Ten of staves.” She muses, holding it up. “Burdened by responsibility. Overwhelmed. Tired.” The card becomes a forget-me-not and it is instantly reduced to ash. “Perhaps you need a break, Dread Wolf.”

He is silent, but his eyes are looking at something beyond her shoulder.

“Look at me!” She rages, closing the space between them once more. She does not anger often, or easily, but in this moment she is consumed by feelings that she has kept very carefully locked away for a long time. “My own dream and you can’t even be bothered to pay attention to me!” She remarks bitterly. “But of course this has nothing to do with the fucking glory of the elvhen!” She bites out, connecting a firm shove to his chest.

She does not notice the stir of movement behind her, nor the sound that it creates.

“Leave this place now. You are not alone.”

He speaks, and it does not lessen her resolve. She has not heard his voice in what feels like years.

She hates it.

This dream is potent and it is composed of furious intent, but he has managed to override it with his own somehow.

She finds that she is now the one unable to speak, and the construct of her vision is beginning to deteriorate in a hazy way around her: Just like the time she tried to free Cullen from his nightmares, her dream is rapidly being overridden by the elf in front of her.

_I do not need to speak in order to communicate how far I will go to stop you._

It is a sentiment that is communicated by El’una with only a predatory stare.

His eyes widen at her unspoken words, and she grabs his wrist. Instead of pulling away, he draws her close and his hot breath causes her to tremble as he laves his tongue across the sensitive skin of her ear.

_Then show me._

Unspoken as it is, the command causes her knees to weaken.

 _I deserve death_ , he tells her and she can’t help but agree.

“This is what you want. This is what I want.” She says, the knife once again in her hand.

_Yes._

“Fuck. You.” She rasps, cocking her arm back and thrusting the knife towards his abdomen.

El’una has little time to comprehend the blissful expression of satiation that lives on Solas’ face in the moment before she buries her blade in his stomach.

His smile never fades. Blood never flows. The veins at his neck continue to pulse.

Another hand grabs her wrist this time.

“Do not ask, only follow!”

The dream melts away much the same as a candle drips, and by the time she finishes blinking she is somewhere very different.

She is sitting on a bench in a cobbled square. There is a massive and very old tree in the middle. She hears gulls. Feynriel sits next to her.

He is staring, wide eyed at her face.

“Who are you?” He demands.

Her breath is hurried and ragged; her anger is slipping away. She manages to say, “El’una.”

“El’una,” The half elf begins incredulously, raking his hands through his ashen hair, “Have you any idea what just happened?”

She struggles for words and feels her mouth search aimlessly for the right ones. “It… I. It was him, didn’t you see? It… there was... a bald elf?“ Her head snaps around to face the tree. She gestures gracelessly.

“An elf?” His nose wrinkles. “No. Whatever it was you were doing, you managed to draw a very powerful spirit to you.” He interrupts. “It almost took you.”

“Took me?” She repeats, frowning now: There was no doubt about it, that was Solas. That was the point. The intent. She was skilled far beyond luring deceitful spirits to herself. “But no. He’s a person and I -”

“It was Vitriol, you stupid elf.” He snaps, standing from the bench. He begins walking away. “Had you followed through and attempted to kill it, it would have won; you would have bound yourself to it, body and soul. That… thing wouldn’t have turned you into an abomination. It would have made you into something far worse.”

“Wait!” She cries, also rising to her feet. “I… it wasn’t. Not at first. It wasn’t meant to be.” She lowers her hand to her side. Caves in on herself a little: Arguing with the Dreamer is not going to win her his allegiance. “Perhaps you could help me?”

Feynriel stops. Turns. Regards her for who she is without knowing that she sleeps very nearby: Eyes rake over a missing arm and dance over pointed ears and long, dishevelled hair. They land on tattered skirts that are decked with charms and crystals and thin chains.

“Who are you?” He asks again, and this time she knows that he will not be content with only her name.

“I am El’una. I am born of The People. I was once known as The Inquisitor.” She moves closer towards him. “Please. You found me here in the Fade - you are a Dreamer, are you not?”

“Yes.” He answers curtly, taking a step back for the one she took closer.

“A wolf seeks to devour the world.” She presses. “I am the only one who can stop him, but if I cannot hide from him in the Fade, he will learn where I am and flee before I can end his plotting. I need your help.” She reaches what should be two hands out towards him. “I fixed the hole in the sky and I defeated an ancient magister. I’d not see everything be undone.”

Feynriel shakes his head from side to side, staring at the ground. “I don’t think you have any idea what you’re playing around with, lady.” His eyes lift and he gazes intently at her face. “Dalish, aren’t you?” He notes. “You haven’t any markings. You should know better than to dream so loudly.” He scolds.

“I’m afraid that I’ve been marked with the vallaslin of an uncommon clan.” She says, deciding to give him a quick recap of what Solas told her. “The ancient elves used the vallaslin as marks to denote which slave belonged to which god. Fen’Harel tricked me into letting him remove mine: By definition of the ancient ways, I belong to him. But I must stop him. He knows who I am, and if he finds me… if he finds out that I am near him, he will flee. Please, Feynriel. Help me hide from The Dread Wolf.”

He flinches.

“How do you know my name?”

Sensing a shift in power, she seizes the opportunity to mold this aspect of the Fade as she wills: Nothing overly large: This man bears a very disciplined and practiced intent- there is no denying that he is indeed a prolific Dreamer. She only twists her hand and exposes it to the pale man so as to display a blood red bandana draped over her palm. “I am a friend of friends.”

He reaches out, touches it gently before pulling it from her hand.

“Marian…”

“This is no trick or jest.” El’una promises. “Hawke is a dear friend of mine. We crossed paths while I lead the Inquisition and she has been nothing but a solid ally.  I understand that she did you a great favour many years ago. Please do me a favour now so that I might save her.”

Feynriel stares at the bandana, rubs it between his fingers.

“Vitriol.” He says, stretching the word out thoughtfully before speaking some more. “That entire setting you created and destroyed… that was powerful dreaming. You’ve done this before.”

“I was taught by the only other Dreamer who walks this land besides you: Fen’Harel himself.”

“Fen’Harel?” He blurts doubtfully before waving his hand through the air and continuing. “That isn’t possible. Fen’Harel is as much of a myth as the rest of the gods. That’s impossible.” He reiterates.

El’una sets her lips in a firm line and hums. “Well. It actually isn’t.” She says, not quite knowing what else to say: He’s a Dreamer. He should know just as well as she that people can be intrinsically drawn to the dreams of others. Of course, she does have to get over the small hump of the fact that Feynriel doesn’t believe in the gods to begin with.

Feynriel shakes his head. “People can be drawn to dreams of other people based on the strength of their intent; myself for example: I’m not sure why you were destroying all of those beautiful things, but you were doing it very loudly and with a considerable amount of anger fueling you. It caught my attention as I wandered the Fade; like a beacon at the edge of the sea. Most people’s dreams are muddled, disorganized things. Yours on the other hand was as crisp and deliberate as it was furious.” He paces back to the bench and sits, resting his elbow on his knee and cradling his chin in his hand as he stares at the tree in the centre of the square. “You wanted me to find you.” He deduces. “And the only way you could dream loudly enough to get my attention was to also draw the attention of the other Dreamer; some idiot who says he’s Fen’Harel.”

She rolls her eyes but lets it slide.

“But instead I roused a demon.” She assumes, also returning to the bench.

Feynriel looks at her with a gaze that is both pitying and remorseful. She sees him desperately trying to believe in what she’s saying; rationalizing and hypothesizing in a way that reminds her so much of Solas that it hurts.

“If what you’re trying to tell me is true, I don’t think so.” He says finally. “I mean… yes. But no. It might sound ridiculous to you, but hear me out. Since coming to Tevinter, I’ve spent a lot of time wandering ancient parts of the Fade: This is an ancient land. A lot of things have happened here. Thousands of years worth of blood has been spilt. This used to be the crux of the ancient elven empire, so it makes sense that there is also thousands of years of knowledge living beneath the decadent structure of Tevinter. Spirits are the first thing a Dreamer must learn to defend himself against: Spirits can be twisted by strong emotions or traumatic events. Demons are only spirits.”

“Yes, I’m well versed in the concept.” El’una says, “But what is it you’re getting at?”

“I don’t have a good enough understanding of exactly why it happened, or why it doesn’t happen anymore, but I’ve seen enough of the Fade to assume that in the ancient times, it was not unheard of for spirits to manifest physically as flesh and blood. You speak of the ancient elves as though they were only people-”

“They were.” El’una insists. “They weren’t gods, only extremely powerful mages that swung the balance of power in whichever direction they pleased.”

“Not unlike Magisters?”

“Not at all unlike Magisters.” She confirms.

“If that’s the case, what is the likelihood that one or more of these elven gods began life as a spirit before becoming flesh?”

She remembers something that Cole said at the Winter Palace with such precision that the square dissolves and is replaced with an Orlesian tavern and sandstone streets.

A pale, lanky young man with a hat far too big for his head stands before her, fingers nervously intertwined in front of him.

_“He did not want a body, but she asked him to come. He left a scar when he burned her off his face.”_

As quickly as it appeared, the Winter Palace dissolves and they are back in the square.

“From one spirit to another…” She mutters, turning to look at Feynriel. “That was Cole. Cole said that to me just before I met Fen’Harel for the first time in years. Cole is a spirit made human. He took the form of an abused mage boy who died in the Circle some time ago. He would always say odd cryptic things like that… I never understood what they meant most of the time. Now I think he was trying to help… because that’s what he does. That’s who he is.” She stares ahead again, repeating words spoken to her from the mouth of her beloved, “I was Solas first. Fen’Harel came later.” She quotes.

It’s all coming together and adding up. She isn’t sure if she feels triumphant or sick.

“Before Fen’Harel was… Fen’Harel, he was an elf named Solas. Fen’Harel was a title.” She explains. “Fen’Harel was the legend that lived on, but Solas was the person who actually existed.” She glances sideways at Feynriel. “How good is your elven?”

“Solas means pride.” Feynriel answers without hesitation. “There’s a small city in Tevinter that shares the namesake.”

“Pride.” She snorts, shaking her head. Of course it would be so blatantly in front of her face the entire time. “What you’re telling me is that Solas is a spirit who became a person and?”

“Because of that, still retains his innate spiritual aspects in the Fade.” Feynriel responds. “Which… now that I think of it, makes complete sense. Your little outburst was tailor made to bring exactly two people to your dream. You couldn’t have known that dragging Pride into a dream that was built out of pure anger and resentment would have forced Pride to become Vitriol. Pride probably doesn’t know it himself; he can’t control it.”

“That doesn’t add up.” El’una points out. “I… we knew each other very well when I was Inquisitor; he helped the Inquisition personally the entire time. I dreamt of him often, and every time he was as normal as he was in waking life. Never once did my intent or emotion change him from his natural state.”

Feynriel sighs and runs a hand through his hair again. “Presumably because he chose to be there; he consciously chose to share the Fade with you. He was able to be himself, free of any outward pressures or emotions. Simply put; he was dreaming of you. You weren’t dreaming of him.”

She considers this. Tries to imagine the time they had spent together in the Fade. And then she remembers how terrified Cole was of the Fade when they were trapped in the domain of the Nightmare, and it makes sense: Cole was afraid of being back in the Fade against his will, where the inherent truth of himself could be twisted against him, forcing him to become something else.

He was weak in the Fade: Unprotected, and malleable despite his adopted nature as a being of flesh and bone.

She shivers unwarranted.

“You said that Vitriol almost took me.” She begins. “That if I had catered to its influence, I would have bound myself to it. What did you mean by that?”

Feynriel shrugs. “I’ve never run into a spirit that was so full of pain in my wanderings. But think of it this way: Vitriol is longer lasting than Rage. It is more focused and considerably bitterer. Rage will shatter glass and pound stones into sand, but Vitriol will make a person believe that their dark actions are done as a deserved benefit; mercy, altruism or otherwise. It is caustic and relentless: Vitriol feels good at the time. Vitriol will trick you into thinking you are noble and justified in your destruction, when in fact you are tightening your own noose.”

_I deserve death…_

“So if I had struck the blow?”

“The way that lesser demons work, is that they make a deal with you, or trick you into giving them something. This opens a door for them to manifest in the real world by possessing your body and turning you into an abomination. If what you say about Pride is true, it is a very, very old spirit, but one that already has a physical form. Based on the legends about it, it is a spirit with a considerable amount of emotion, memory and power behind it. I can’t prove it, but I suspect that if you gave Vitriol what it wanted you would have fallen under some sort of geas: An unbreakable bond of servitude or ownership to that spirit.”

El’una mulls this concept over for a while in silence, thinking only of Morrigan’s fate after drinking from The Well of Sorrows; unwittingly, the powerful sorceress had bound herself to Mythal’s whim in exchange for the knowledge of old. She wonders where Morrigan is now. If she knows what is happening or if she is even aware of Fen’Harel’s return. Mythal is one of the Evanuris, and the only one that Solas had spoken fondly of. Surely she knows. What does the future hold for Morrigan, in that case?

She stows the thought and returns to the task at hand and the other lamentable question that has sprung into existence.

“Hypothetically, if I had followed through and bound myself to the Vitriolic aspect of Fen’Harel… would he know it? Would he wake up and know what had transpired? Would he… would he even remember?”

For the first time, Feynriel looks at her and shrugs helplessly.

“I’m not sure.” He says quietly. “But you didn’t do it, so for now you’re safe.”

Silence falls between the two of them. For a time there is only the sound of gulls calling and the distant thrum of the ocean meeting land. A slight wind rustles the leaves of the massive tree and El’una finds herself blinking away tears.

“I need to stop him.” She reiterates. “I… I love him. He and I were… together before all of this happened. He’s making a very big mistake and I need to help him.” She admits, lamenting the weakness of her voice. She is surprised that she’s telling Feynriel this, but realizes that she’s been dying to share this with someone for a long time. Feynriel has always made her feel warm. The hours spent with him in her lab have made her feel close to the Dreamer, and she trusts him more than she’s trusted anyone in a very long time.

“He’s not a bad person.” She insists. “He’s just… very confused.” She sniffles and laughs, because laughing is all she has. “Besides, wouldn’t you be confused too, if you went to sleep for a couple thousand years and woke up in a world that was even more fucked up than when you left it?” She wipes at her eyes and exhales loudly. “He is a grand idiot, and I have to keep hoping that there is something, somewhere in this stupid world that gives him enough pause to reconsider.” She looks at Feynriel with blurry eyes. “So would you be able to help me hide from him? He is in Tevinter. So am I. He can’t know that I’m closing in.”

“And we can’t have you dragging him into your dreams like that again.” Feynriel warns.

“Never.” El’una shakes her head frantically. “I never want to see him like that again.”

Feynriel considers. Leaves dance in the reflection of his pale eyes. El’una knows that this is asking a lot; this man has seen much in the twenty-some summers he has seen. She is now asking him, as the only other living Dreamer she knows of, to help her fool the most powerful elf in existence.

He would be taking a great risk.

If Solas could not gain the allegiance of this individual, he would surely destroy him.

El’una would not let that happen.

Besides, she has never been afraid to ask for anything, even knowing that she may be turned down.

“Can I meet you?” He says at last. “In The Waking? It would be easier that way.”

She freezes. How would that work? How could she make that happen without alerting half of the Magisterium to her presence?

“I… It’s not a safe place for me… the Imperium.” She mentions, gesturing to her ears. “I’ve made enemies here during my time as Inquisitor. For now I am hidden among friends, but I fear that revealing myself to you will be a danger to us both.”

“Pick the place, then.” Feynriel says. “I am apprentice to the son of a Magister; I am guaranteed safe passage almost anywhere within the Imperium. Name the place and I will meet you there.”

“I will find you instead.” She says. “We need to avoid implicating your host, as I must do the same for mine.” It was true; keeping the Cassius family out of this was just as important as keeping House Pavus free of implication.

“I will find you soon.” She promises.

Chantry bells ring nearby.

She looks at her missing arm.

She wakes up.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I miss David Bowie a lot. 
> 
> This one is for him.

A sense of displaced confusion muddles places where calm lucidity has always reigned.

This is unfamiliar and unwarranted.

It hurts.

There is a tangle of unwilling detachment; a level of depersonalization that is entirely jarring in its insistence: He scrambles to sort through what has happened starting with what he knows: He is in the Fade. He was before as well, prior to the moment that everything turned into a perilously murky dream.

An alien device that gleams red and rides on four wheels veers past him and it occurs to him that something is terribly wrong with himself.

Someone was angry; so loud and insistent in their sanguine that it was impossible to ignore.

There might have been a person with pale eyes and ashen hair; a blade was certainly involved - he could almost see it in his mind’s eye; silver and sharp.

He undeniably heard chains that sing and saw an empty space that used to hold light of green.

Her.

She dragged him here. Uprooted him. Cursed him somehow.

He feels sick with indignation and embarrassment.

Solas does not yell often.

He yells now.

The air around him stills and shimmers gold, or it would if air was as simple a matter here as it was in waking life. It would be more succinct to say that _around_ him shimmers gold, warming in the best possible way: It is most reminiscent of Skyhold and those first few utterly tremendous moments when the heat of a roaring fireplace tingles at frosty fingers and snaps sensation back to rosy cheeks.

It feels like home, he realizes, discovering that he is not quite so upset anymore as he continues to exist in the scintillating embrace of what surrounds him.

“Words uttered in forgetful moments are often the ones that do the most damage. We must be mindful of what outcomes we place our hope in.”

_Interesting._

“You are not at fault for what occurred; I am told by Justice.” The words at the end are added hastily.

He tilts his head. Golden orbs that are in more common company with small suns than eyes regard him. “Justice?” He repeats moonishly; he sees no spirit matching that description anywhere within this golden mist.

“She meant no harm to you. She only aimed to help. She mostly only tries to help… though she goes about it awfully loudly sometimes. I’ve been watching her: I truly believe that she would never seek to cause you pain.” The orbs drift lazily around one another. “Continuously looking for alternatives. Amusing. Nay. _Inspiring._ I doubt she’ll have care to stop at all, even though she’s well aware that she’s…” It trails off and the spheres of light gently cease their rotation, taking the time to consider their tangent. Miniature flares arc quite beautifully over the surface during the silence. “Well… I don’t know if that’s ever truly been able to stop _anyone_ when I put some thought to it… but I suppose that most forget to consider that.” The thing hums ruminatively, its voice resonating into the beyond and through Solas as a wordless song that is timeless in structure, yet somehow impossible to memorize. It seems to have forgotten that it is holding him and he has to actually squirm a bit until the orbs align themselves to face him again.

“What are you?” He asks, finally collected enough to manage speech. By now it has dawned on him that he is held in the embrace of a spirit that appears to be considerably ancient; older than himself by millennia, he would wager, judging by its massive but predominantly shapeless effulgence that stretches as far as his eyes allow him to see - He is not occupying a place in the Fade with this spirit: It _is_ a place in the Fade.

The small suns rotate slowly and pass through one another.

He supposes this is the closest to blinking that it can do.

“Alas…” It says, “It would seem that I have escaped from your memory, Pride.”

“My apologies, but I do not recall having met you before.”

Bright sparks skip across the surface of the spheres and the spirit hums again.

“She was unaware that you are Born of the Fade. She did not know that drawing you to a dream in such a way would skew you from your inherent nature. I suspect that you did not know it either; you’ve been alone for a very long time, and you’ve been a Person for even longer. I imagine you forgot. Many spirits do.

“I had to part you from her, lest she come to harm by your hand. I imagine you would regret it, had you hurt her.” The orbs drift apart from one another. “She guessed that if she was loud enough, you would be drawn to her instead of hiding. She had no way of knowing that her passionate reasoning would cause you to forget who you are.”

Solas frowns, surveys the golden cloud he now lives in with this spirit.

“You must be Creativity, then?” He ventures, still trying to add up the clues to the identity of this spirit. It isn’t often that he can’t pick them out after a short conversation or a quick observation, but this is unlike any spirit he has ever encountered; the sensation of its age alone is staggering.

It laughs. The orbs tremble in place. His surroundings seem to gleam a bit brighter for a moment.

“Nay.” It retorts merrily. “Though I am certain you will remember in time.”

Solas’ mind now drifts to the question that has been itching at him since he regained lucidity; his hunger to know its answer has been strengthened by the spirit’s most previous remark, though it is an answer he is confident he will take no joy in: He is very old, and he is accustomed to controlling dreams; it is easy, this far into his life to forget where he started.

“What did I become?” He inquires softly.

The orbs drift back together and resume their calming orbit around each other. The spirit does not speak for a time. Out of care for his feelings or fear of his reaction, Solas cannot say, though he suspects it is the former; despite its benevolent nature, it is clear to him that he is no comparison to this being that has clearly flourished for eons in the Fade.

“Vitriol.” It answers finally.

“Vitriol?” He repeats.

If glowing, starlike orbs could nod, they did so now.

“The one who drew you into her Dreaming carries a great deal of anger as one would bear a massive stone upon their back. She did not seek to force you to Vitriol, but where you had no control, her intent dominated your latent spiritual nature.”

“I am aware of how spirits work.” Solas mutters, though rather indignantly: Vitriol? So caustic. So cruel. He should be above such things, and if there had not been interference, he suspects that the former leader of nations would have met a terrible end and he might have woken in the morning and not even _remembered_.

He feels sick again, but only for a fleeting moment, for the spirit replaces the fresh bloom of nausea in his gut with a weightless sensation that is not at all unpleasant and not dissimilar from the feeling one gets after a few glasses of tart, currant flavoured mead.

“You mustn’t wallow in blame.” It reminds him, but it sounds stern this time. “‘Twas only her attempt at solving a problem. She simply made a mistake: Those happen to the best of people, especially when they are seeking to accomplish something. If everything worked perfectly the first time, there would be little to be gained from an experience, do you not agree, Pride?”

“Perseverance.” He concludes suddenly.

The spheres wobble to-and-fro.

“Not entirely.”

He had no idea prior to this moment that faceless, featureless suns could _smirk_.

“Why interfere?” He asks. “You claim that her intent was founded on strong anger. You clearly saw what occurred and saw fit to remove me. How is it that you were not also warped by her resentment?”

“Because I exist even with the most resentful of dreamers. The most melancholy. The most joyful. There is not a feeling or idea in the world that may taint what I am when all is said and done.”

He considers this: What in existence can persevere through good, bad and sorrow? The last concept gives him an idea. “Not even Despair?” He inquires, for Despair is cold and heavy and discouraging and it clings to the powerful as much as the weak, and it eats at the successful as much as the despondent. Despair is common in the world, and it makes victims of everyone.

“Despair is my great enemy, yet it cannot destroy, twist, or break me.” It notes, and its voice certainly carries the tone of one speaking of a despicable foe.

“And yet I cannot name you, and I cannot recall our meeting.” He remarks, genuinely stumped. “I have no doubt that you are familiar with what I’ve done: Who I am.”

“Verily.” The spirit babbles. “You are Pride. You deigned to dream of a better world, yet you speak of yourself queerly, as though you are a criminal existence.”

“Because my dream for a better world became a nightmare.” He is aware that it is a statement that has the delicacy and precision of a rough, wooden club.

“... so?” It asks, slowing in its rotation once again and Solas waits for it to continue speaking before realizing that it is waiting for an answer.

“I might undo what I have done to an extent…” he pauses, never happy to linger on the consequences of his aims. “But it will come at the cost of many lives.”

“You might seek a better way, rather than just undoing the exact action which yielded terrible results.” It points out fairly. “Spirit-kind certainly does get _odd_ , wandering around in those bizarre little flesh-bones for so many years. It’s a wonder you’ve managed to not die despite your curious approach to problem-solving.”

Did the spirit just _insult_ him?

“One might wonder where you’ve been, if you are the tree that bears such _fruitful_ answers.” He remarks while gazing intently at the small stars.

“I haven’t any answers.” The spirit insists. “None do. Not even Wisdom. I am a spirit. I only…” it trails off again, hanging on the end of the word. “I only lend aid to those who are unafraid to choose life, experience, and something to work towards.”

“Then aid me. You are clearly ancient, strong and wise.”

The orbs intensify in both light and colour; there are more flares now than there have been before.

“And you are clearly young, foolish and confused. I am not one to pick sides; I meddle with _everyone_. If you succeed in pulling apart the walls of the prison you created, I will continue as I always have done. Similarly, I will continue as I always have done if you do _not_ succeed. You act out of desperation and self-loathing - there is very little that draws me to your flawed reasoning, Pride.”

It pricks and tingles his skin through his clothing now, where the shimmering wisps of this spirit come into contact with him and the small suns that had been a passive and ethereal white until now, have inherited a jarring and fiery shade of orange. The spirit is undeniably genial and open, but it is also extraordinary and he is quickly realizing that he is nervous about how vulnerable he is to this being.

“Very well.” He concedes. “Though… I might see you again? I have not met one quite like you in all of my Time.”

The suns begin to dissolve into the atmosphere around them, chuckling all the while and Solas wakes with the spirit’s parting words echoing singing splendidly around his psyche.

“One hopes.”


	14. Chapter 14

She is unable to work for a few days after her encounter with Vitriol. She suspects the amount of magic she used to fashion such a setting of such tangibility, coupled with the emotional impact of what transpired in the Fade was enough to weaken her already compromised immune system, resulting in a painful and unpleasant period of bedrest imposed on her by a  dear friend who would not accept anything less.

“You will not send a healer.” She impresses as Dorian stares gravely at the blood spackled handkerchief on the night table next to her. She grabs the stained linen square and hacks into it again, wiping blood away from her lips when she’s done.

“There must be something that can be done for the pain at least!” Her friend argues. “You look like death.”

El’una smiles humorlessly. “I may crack a rib from laughing if you keep coming up with such outrageous jokes.” The handkerchief is doffed back onto the table and El’una flings aside the bedclothes and swings her legs over the edge of the bed. “I’m being serious, Dorian. No healers. I don’t want to be touched. I don’t want to be examined. I’m more than certain that you don’t want it getting out that your distinguished guest is carrying the city illness,  and unfortunately you can only buy so much silence from people. No healers.” She rises to her feet and in the space of a blink, Evelyn Trevelyan fills out the shapes of the fine silk nightgown that El’una Lavellan could not.

“Fine.” Dorian concedes, but not happily. “I’m only concerned that you’re pushing yourself too hard; Rumor has is that you are a complete joy to be around, and the fervor and hours that you put into your work are unmatched by anything anyone has ever seen.”

“Rightly so; impending death makes for a rather strict motivator.” El’una quips. “I am going for a walk.”

“El’una, “ Dorian begins.

“Don’t.” She snaps from behind the partition she has hidden herself behind. There is silence broken only by the rustling of fabric as Dorian can hear her organizing herself. “I’ll not argue, Dorian. If I sit in here, languishing away like a hermit, people will begin to ask questions: There will be speculation and then there will be snooping. The fewer suspicions raised, the better. I’m going to the market, and I’m taking Feynriel with me.”

“Fascinating, this sudden interest you’ve developed in the young man.” Dorian intuits.

“He’s interesting.” El’una retorts, and there is a sound of clasps jingling. “I require more spirit and blackthorn, and I’d like to see beyond the walls of the estate. I would enjoy Feynriel’s company as I’m sure he’s more familiar with the city than most.” She emerges from behind the partition, looking nothing short of regal.

Lady Trevelyan always cut a formidable silhouette, but the fierce looking woman’s features coupled with the striking red of the satin gown is nothing short of impressive. “You wouldn’t mind aiding me with this cursed thing?” She asks rather bashfully, presenting her back to him and holding out the lengths of cord that trail from the corset she mentions. She makes a disgusted noise and Dorian sets to tightening the trailing cords.

“Beauty is pain, my dear.” Dorian smirks. “I’m beginning to get jealous of this acolyte: Where’s my invitation to the market?”

“I’m sure that Magister Pavus has people to go and mill about the place for him.” El’una notes wryly. “But do feel free to join us. A dark dungeon is not your environment of choice, so I’ve seen understandably little of you since we’ve arrived.” She winces as the corset is cinched up higher.

“Nonsense.” Dorian proclaims. “I’ve an afternoon walk in the gardens with our dear Maevaris which I suspect will stretch late into the evening.”

“Now _that_ woman is a mage I would like to meet.”

“I’m certain she would be honoured to meet the Inquisitor that she’s heard so much about, but for now it would likely be best to let her think that you are in fact a Trevelyan. It isn’t that I don’t trust her. I trust Maevaris more than only a handful of people; I just assume that you don’t need to add another name to your list of people who know about your little ruse, which as far as I understand, goes as far as myself, Leliana, and Charming Harding.”

With a final creak of whale bone, Dorian ties off the ends of the cords and El’una settles as much as she can into the freshly tied corset.

“Well, spending time outside of the estate today is a good first step to integrating myself some more. I’ve spent all of my time between my chambers and the lab.”

Dorian raises an eyebrow and nods in agreement. “Conditioned focus is one thing, but you mustn’t forget to live while you can.”

El’una waves a hand through the air and begins twisting her wavy, corn coloured hair into an elegant twist. “I’ve heard back from our spy-handlers: Leliana is going to quietly mobilize a small elven contingent into Tevinter territory. Harding is going to put together a spectacular leak back in Ferelden that will strongly suggest that I am in fact still there, romping about with a herd of wolfhounds, vocally rallying support against Solas, visiting Dalish clans and spreading word of Fen’Harel.” Her hands drift to her sides and she smiles. “I’m actually disappointed to miss it. It sounds as though she’s putting a great deal of planning into the spectacle.”

“And what is this about Leliana’s agents?”

“Her agents will be quietly dispersing themselves among the general populace of rural Tevinter, the front lines of Seheron, Minrathous, and a singular, direct infiltration into Solas’ own network. If Solas wants to play a game of cloak and dagger, he certainly picked an opposing spymaster that’ll rise to the challenge: I think Leliana took it rather personally when I chose to dissolve the Inquisition in order to throw Solas off our trail. If anyone can seamlessly reinvent their spy network out of pure spite, it’s her.”

“And she can be certain that all of these elves that she’s collected can be trusted?”

“That’s my responsibility. It’s a very small team that she’s currently working with, though, and from my understanding, one that has varied but sincere reasons to aid our cause.”

In all truth, El’una has very little concrete understanding of this elven team; Leliana has included very little detail about any of them in their correspondence, due to the risk of their writings being intercepted along the way.

“If there’s anything that I can do to keep them safe, or help, I’m at your disposal.” Dorian says sincerely. “It sounds as though they’re all undertaking a great risk in coming here. I will use my sway in whatever way I can to assist them, if need be.”

“Thank you, Dorian. You’ve done so much for me: expressing my gratitude is impossible. You’ve been nothing but my best and dearest friend.” She regrets the prickle in her eyes as she says the words; being comfortable with death is one thing, but she supposes she’ll never be comfortable with ‘goodbye.’

“Enough of that El’una; you’re only going to the market.” Dorian crosses the room and opens the door, gesturing outwards with a sweep of his hand.

“Thank you, Magister Pavus.” El’una smiles.

“Think nothing of it, Lady Trevelyan.”

The sun hits her face.

She steps outside.

_________________________________________________________________

Running out of spirit and blackthorn were two things that were not in danger of happening for at least a fortnight. Being out of commission was a bittersweet opportunity for El’una to focus on other aspects of planning, but it had cost her valuable face-to-face time with Feynriel. Time was of the essence and the Dreamer needed to meet El’una Lavellan in the flesh.

Just not in the estate.

“How is Quintus’ father?” She asks as they examine the contents of a stand that sells crystals and raw metals that hum loudly with magic. El’una picks up a lump of unrefined citrine and it reacts in the same fashion as the staff on her back; her magical energy collides with its own and if it were anything more than a chunk of rock, it would have tried desperately to escape her clutch. She sets it down gently, feeling a bit sorry for upsetting it so.

“His condition has stabilized some,” Feynriel says, getting lost in the depth of a rather pretty shard of polished tourmaline. His eyes cross slightly as he holds it close to his face. “It is said that it is only a matter of time, though.” He admits rather sullenly. “I admit that I am considerably happier to see that you are feeling well again, Lady Trevelyan.” He looks up and treats her to a smile. “What was it that set you ill, again?”

“You would have to be a woman to understand.” She replies politely and a bloom of colour spreads across Feynriel’s cheeks as he comprehends and gazes very intently at the tourmaline again.

“I - I’m sorry, Lady Trevelyan. Though you appear to be in good health today.”

“I do feel considerably better. It was terribly dull sitting around my chambers for such a long time. This fresh air is a real treat and I never imagined this is what the market at Minrathous would be like.” She glances around, her statement an honest one: For as repellent as being in public was at first, the market was certainly a colourful hub of culture and economy. It was sprawling, easily taking up the amount of space that Skyhold did, and it was bustling with all manner of interesting people, either purchasing or hawking magical wares. “Thank you for coming with me.” El’una smiles warmly at Feynriel.

“I’m just relieved to see you out and about again.” He returns the expression and El’una takes the time to select a richly blue piece of azurite from one of the shelves on the stand. She turns and tosses it to Feynriel, winking cheerfully at him when he catches it.

“This one likes you; it’s yours.”

The returned playfulness in his face dissolves into a flush of surprise. “Lady Trevelyan, I can’t. You musn’t - “

“That one likes you. It would be wrong not to take it. You feel it humming, yes?” El’una smiles again and taps the vendor on the shoulder.

She is a small, crooked woman, this soporati; her hair is iron gray and her left eye is grossly magnified by an extremely thick lens clenched between the wrinkled skin of her brow and cheek. As she whirls around a leather sack hung on a thong chinks against her chest and sways to a halt as she squints through the massive lens. Her eye drifts from El’una to Feynriel, to the staves on their backs.

“A pretty bauble for your lady, ser?” She croons to Feynriel, stepping towards him.

“For him, actually.” El’una interjects, drawing a coin from the front of her dress and placing it into the hand of the soporati woman. “My thanks.” She returns to Feynriel’s side and steers him away from the stall and back into the ever-fluid throng of people and colourful silks.

“Why did you do that?” He asks her as they mingle into the crowd.

“Because why not? Have I harmed you with my gift, Feynriel?” She casts a sidelong smile at him as they press towards the main square. “Do I offend you with my demonstration of wealth? Do you feel that in giving you a token of my appreciation you are now subservient to me? I can assure you that’s not at all the case.” She holds her hand out, “Give it back, if you don’t believe me. I’m serious.”

Feynriel does not give it back.

“You just… didn’t have to do that. That was not a thrifty gift.” He holds the lazurite to his chest as if afraid that El’una is going to snatch it from him.

“A person in my position doesn’t have care or concern for wealth.” She immediately hates how the words sound when they are spoken and quickly recovers them. “Wow. No. That isn’t at all what I meant.” She feels her own cheeks redden now as she scrambles for words that might repair this rapidly deteriorating situation; she hates that she overlooked the fact that Feynriel does not know that she is the elf from his dreams. He doesn’t know she’s dying either and that she has legitimate claim to not caring much about money. “You know… I’m a bit thirsty. Would you like to grab a drink somewhere?”

Feynriel nods, not looking nearly as off-put as El’una expected, and says, “There’s a tavern a few blocks that way that you might like.”

“Let’s go then.” El’una grins. “I’m parched.”

As the tavern comes into view El’una begins to run through a familiar and completely common set of questions that most people have when they’re nervous:

_Am I doing the right thing?_

_Am I a complete idiot?_

_Am I making a huge mistake?_

_Is this how stupid people die?_

But before she knows it her eyes are adjusting to the dim light of the bar and the dust that drifts down from the rafters makes her throat itch, coaxing a few half-hearted but neatly disguised coughs from her.

There is no fleeing now, she realizes as the door clicks shut behind her and she and Feynriel weave their way through the dimly lit lounge. Feynriel called it a tavern but from what El’una could see it was more comparable to a slightly neglected, covered garden that flourishes with abandon despite the very small amount of sunlight filtering in from the grimy windows. A large (but rather murky) pool sits in the center of the room, surrounded by the bar. She reckons it’s a wonder that the staff of the establishment flit so gracefully around the square pool as they serve drinks: A less graceful employee very well might take a poorly judged step backwards and plummet into the mirror-still fixture.

They find a quiet corner in the tavern next to a splendidly grown hydrangea inside a planter shaped like the mouth of a dragon. El’una orders a bottle of wine that is befitting to the station of a Trevelyan, and Feynriel orders a pint of ale and sets his new lazurite on the table.

“You seem tired.” She decides to open with, after the barmaid sets their drinks on the table.

“Tired?” Feynriel repeats. “Maybe a little.”

El’una places her fingers around the lazurite and pulls it over to her.

“Bad dreams?”

“Nothing odder than usual for someone like me.” He replies curtly.

An uncomfortable tension has settled between the pair of them and El’una ponders how to diffuse it. She’s never had a flair for theatrics and dramatic reveals, and yet the best possible way she can imagine going about revealing her identity to the man sitting across from her involves a cloud of coloured smoke and a considerable amount of bright light.

_No._

She shakes her head and opens her mouth, but before she can create any sound, Feynriel speaks, “Listen, I’m not sure how to say this without making things uncomfortable between us, but I’m not in a position… I can’t, I’m not…you’re kind and smart but - social standing and all.”

She blinks and reacts, lifting her wine glass and emitting a clipped laugh before exclaiming, “By Mythal’s breath! No!”

Feynriel’s mug halts on its way to his lips.

_Shit._

“Pardon?”

El’una drinks, nearly slams the cup of wine on the table hard enough to break it, and then blurts out the first semi-reasonable thing that comes to mind.

“When was the last time you had your cards read, Feynriel?” She asks, reaching down to the pouch on her belt. Cards that have seen months of loneliness are treated to touch again, and El’una takes comfort in the dog-eared stack of fortune she holds.

“What is this?” He asks, watching as she confidently dovetails, cuts, and drops the cards with one hand before placing the tattered deck of cards in front of him.

“Cut.” She instructs, without explanation placing her hand over the lazurite again.

“But -”

“Please.”

Feynriel does.

“Once more.”

The third pile is set and a familiar rhythm comes back to her and she easily explains the next steps to Feynriel, waiting as he indicates which piles of cards belong where. The deck is consolidated again and she spreads them across the table in the space between them with a calculated motion that is as natural to her as breathing, even after all this time.

“Choose.”

For once she does not need to explain why he must take his time and feel the choice; the magic in the small space between them is palpable; words are not necessary. Feynriel obediently rakes his eyes over the surface before him, his fingers lingering over the back of each card as he feels them each out.

“This.” He says, tapping his finger on the corner of his chosen card.

“You have to draw it.” She prompts and she waits till he does.

“Two of Swords.”

_Couldn’t have gone better._

“Choices. Indecision. Stalemate. Your problem needs to be resolved by means of intellect: Cautious but not automatous thought. Being forced to choose between two of anything is always more difficult than choosing from a more varied lot. Making a decision as difficult as the one you face isn’t easy, but apathy means death for you. You have been called to action.” She lifts her eyes to meet Feynriel’s she sighs, sweeps the cards up in her hand and says, “He did not want a body, but she asked him to come.”

_Don’t stand up. Don’t make a scene. Don’t draw attention._

_This is incredibly dangerous. We may be alone, but we are not in private and that man across the bar hasn’t stopped watching us since we arrived._

“You invoked Mythal’s name.” Feynriel notes finally.

“An ungainly slip of the tongue.” El’una answers, leaning in over the table so she can lower her voice to a whisper and still be heard. “You must be quiet. Keep hush and I will explain to you everything. I have reason to suspect that we are not speaking in utmost confidence, so we must proceed with care.” She meets his eyes and says, “I have your word?” She does not speak again until Feynriel nods slowly.

“Wonderful.” She leans back and assumes a casual posture once more. She almost wages into speech but catches herself and points at Feynriel’s forgotten mug of ale. “You’ll want a drink.” She promises. “Now. Before this gets any further out of hand; your suspicions are correct; I am exactly who you think I am.”

He looks at her, though not skeptically. “But… you’re not an elf. You’re Lady Trevelyan. I dreamt of an elf with a missing arm.”

“Lady Evelyn Trevelyan is dead. She died over four years ago.” She lays her left hand out across the table, face down. “Take my hand.”

Feynriel hesitates for only a moment, though El’una sees him inwardly steels himself as he reaches across the table and places his own hand on hers. The Veil crackles almost imperceptibly for an instant and Feynriel’s fingers are gently stroking the unmistakable surface of a well worn wooden bar table. With a flick, her hand is back as if it had never been gone and Feynriel watches, bemused as she waves fingers that he had most definitely seen vanish only a second earlier.  

“Things have changed since the Inquisition dissolved; I no longer possess political power or a personal guard to oversee my safety, but I give you my word that I am who I say I am.”

She gives Feynriel a moment to absorb and take a deep drink.

“A glamour?” He says finally. “The amount of magic it would take to maintain it with such detail would be staggering. We were just out in a market full of hundreds of people. There’s almost a hundred in this tavern.” He gives his head a shake. “You can’t possibly impress your illusion on this many people without _someone_ seeing past it.” He wipes his hand over his mouth and chin.

“Not conventially.” El’una mentions, sweeping the tarot cards back together and setting them off to the side of the table in a neatly stacked pile. Deciding that it is safe enough to do so, she drops the ostentatious speaking pattern of Lady Trevelyan and returns to her comfortable accent and tone. “The things one learns when they spend nigh on a full year in the daily company of an ancient elvhen mage who is professing to help you in your duty to kill an immortal darkspawn Magister.” She chuckles and shakes her head.

“Fen’Harel, a mage?” Feynriel ventures. “Not a god? And he _helped_ the Inquisition. A person revered as a god for thousands of years just happens to be up and about, doing charity works for Andrastian organizations? This was out of the goodness of the trickster’s own heart, I presume?” Skepticism at last.

“There are no gods.” El’una says. “There never were. Only incredibly powerful mages and a world that existed without The Veil. Fen’Harel - Solas, as we in the Inquisition knew him - is a person just like you and me. Bleeds real blood; I’ve seen my fair share of it.

He helped the Inquisition because… well, in all fairness it was his own damn fault that the entire sky split open and Corypheus killed loads of people. He had recently risen from ages and ages of slumber and was disillusioned with what he saw the world had become. His aim was to unlock the power of an ancient relic and sunder The Veil, hopefully restoring what was lost and setting right the world… at least… by his reasoning.”

She recalls the day that all of this truth was revealed to her; how farfetched and utterly destroying it was at the time. Back then she would never have thought she’d be sitting across from a man she’s only known for a short time, calmly telling him the same truths in a bunk tavern in the middle of the Tevinter capital.

“The Inquisition destroyed Corypheus and in his failure I sent the magister back to his beloved Fade in half a dozen pieces. Solas failed to retrieve his ancient relic intact: The item itself had been physically destroyed and what power that did not break with it now sat in the hands of another. He vanished soon after and was not seen or heard from until some years later when he, as Fen’Harel, dismantled a Qunari plot that would have seen the start of a continent wide war. That was the last time that I saw him, and during that brief time, he saw fit to tell me all of this.

With his relic lost to him, he has been and will continue seeking other means to ‘fix’ the world. Due to the implied body count and the general moral disregard of such a goal, I think you’ll agree with me when I say that we simply cannot allow that to happen.” She smiles and it is not an expression of joy. “Hence, why I need your aid, Feynriel. I no longer have an Inquisition. I no longer have political connections or an army at my disposal. I don’t even have a bloody left arm anymore, but I need to do what I can with what I have in order to ensure he doesn’t succeed.”

“You said in your dream that you were bound to him; that he was more than just a companion to you.”

“Words are powerful; knowing what I know now, I would strongly advise that anyone about to make a vow to another person that is fueled by emotion and passion, that they take a moment and deeply consider what they’re getting themselves into.” El’una explains. “But, at that time, in my own mind’s eye in a far away future I was someone who had it all sorted out; the picture of discipline. Maybe even owned a garden, had children.

It took a lot, but I eventually realized that I’ll never be the person that I thought I’d be. There was a love that existed between Solas and I that was historic; to the minstrel in all of us, the love we had could be interpreted as a tragic edda, but like all tragedies I am understood enough to know that a happy ending does not wait for our love: We have no future, he and I, though it is love itself that makes me responsible for stopping him.”

“You seem to be a lady of great faith; why do you sound so hopeless in matters of love?”

El’una stares grimly at Feynriel. “The decoction that I brought into Minrathous with me; it’s a unique composition known by my clan and other Dalish as _sahtla_. Between you, Quintus and myself we’ve manufactured and sent out into the city a number of batches of the potion in order to combat epidemics of the city illness in poorer areas. I suppose you also recall my insistence that you both take a dose as well?”

Feynriel’s nose wrinkles and he makes a face. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget that taste.”

“It was of the utmost importance that you and Quintus take the _sahtla_ because I am the one who is suffering from the city illness. There can be no future for a mortal woman and Fen’Harel due to the very simple fact that the mortal woman is dying. I have a short period of time left, and he has an eternity, hence the rash behaviour and need for action.” She leans close again and lowers her voice. “We need to wrap up. That patron at the bar has been watching us intently this entire time and I’m beginning to think it isn’t just because I’m pretty.” Feynriel nods and she continues in a quiet voice. “I need you to teach me as much as you can about Dreaming in a very short time. I specifically need to know how to guard my mind from other Dreamers, I need to know how to manipulate the Fade in the dreams of other people, and I need to learn how to strike fear into the minds of men. Can you help me with that?”

“How short a time are we talking?” Feynriel asks.

“Weeks.” El’una replies bluntly; she knows she is asking a lot.

“It will be difficult… and with your… condition I’m not sure it would be wise to -.”

“Don’t concern yourself with my health. Death is inevitable for me regardless.” She taps the fingers of her left hand on the table, “There is one other thing I would have you aid me in mastering. I imagine you’ve been exposed to your fair share of it here in Tevinter and I wouldn’t be asking if I had any other recourse.”

“What is it?”

“For as much as I’ve adjusted to life without it, I am severely hampered by lack of limb: I need a left arm, and you are going to teach me what you know of blood magic to get it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long! This chapter was stubborn, hard to write, and has been changed a number of times and I'm still not thrilled with it. I got engaged towards the end of January, so my life has been overtaken with celebrating, wedding planning, and generally squishy, happy feelings. 
> 
> Nothing snaps a girl out of Solavellan hell faster than a real life happy ending. It feels weird to come back and write such a sad, tragic relationship after living in nothing but romantic bliss for the past month. 
> 
> But what can you do?! My next update should arrive much sooner!


	15. Chapter 15

“I can’t do that.” Feynriel says. “You would harm another person so that you might have an arm again? Blood magic can be used without the pain of others, but what you ask is more than what willing sacrifice can give.” 

El’una’s mouth sets in a firm line as she receives her rejection; she is not pleased to hear these words, though she can’t say that she wasn’t expecting them. “I seem to have won your trust up until this point, I’m asking you to continue trusting me, Feynriel.”

“I’ve seen it go way too wrong!” He whispers loudly, leaning forward. “I have seen things done in the name of blood magic since I got here that you can’t even fathom!”

She blinks calmly, knowing that betraying any ire would push the Dreamer further away. “If you think I intend to learn it so as to have an interesting talking point at a party, you’re wrong.” She explains. “I’m deferring to your knowledge and your advice in this. I know that you wouldn’t use blood magic for harm, and I’m not expecting you to teach me it so that I can do harm either.”

Feynriel draws his hands in a line across the air, decidedly indicating the end of this topic. “I’m not going there.” He declares. “Not a chance. I’ve already agreed to help you Dream, which frankly is taking a huge risk because you’re not actually even a Dreamer and this could end disastrously.” He takes a breath and continues, “Beyond that, you’ve asked me to stick my neck out against some tit who is thousands of years old. Where the fuck is that going to put me? In the ground, most likely!”

Barely listening to Feynriel’s murmured rant, El’una jams her cards into the pouch at her side and swallows the rest of her wine. “Get to your feet slowly and casually and make for the exit, but do not dally.” She stands and leaves a silver on the table for their drinks, and makes conversation with Feynriel as she arranges her skirts and stave about her. “You like the azurite, then?”

He glares defiantly at her for only a moment before he seems to think better of continuing, and says, “Yes, Lady Trevelyan. I have never seen a stone of its like. I’ll treasure it always.” 

“So long as you’ll always think of me.” She replies cheerfully, glancing over her shoulder and winking at Feynriel as they begin making their way towards the exit. As she does this she is not surprised to see that the hooded and cloaked figure from the bar is no longer in his seat and is in fact nowhere to be seen; lost within the bodies that mill around the establishment. Her mind implores her to decide how is she going to handle this potential threat in a crowded area with as little damage as possible.

She settles on the simplest answer.

Upon exiting the lounge, she presses her back against the wall next to the door and Feynriel follows her lead, pressing against the wall on the opposite side of the door. 

El’una pulls her staff over her shoulders and holds it at the ready. The wood crackles unhappily. 

It is a quick series of events that unfold a few moments later: The door opens, a figure emerges and promptly catches their left foot on the butt of the staff that has been inconspicuously placed in front of it. There is a flurry of fabric and cursing as the individual skids to the ground, their upper half obscured by the mass of dark cloth that has been thrown all around them. 

“Grab his legs.” El’una commands, and Feynriel does so without question, hoisting the person’s ankles up and following El’una as she bustles around the corner of the lounge into the alley behind it. As he is being dragged, the cloaked figure begins to groan and protest loudly. This earns him a jab to the gut with El’una’s staff. “If you can’t hush, I will kill you.” She promises. 

There is another groan, and a response. 

“Ungh… I was told you could not use a staff. I fear I have been lied to… again.”

They embark deep into the alley where it is dark and quiet and El’una drags her captor off the ground and slams his back into the wall, holding him there like some sort of obscene and stringless puppet. 

“Give me a reason not to kill you, spy.” She demands. “Conspiring against a Trevelyan is unwise at the best of times, but here? Idiocy on your part.”

The hood slides off the man’s head as he chuckles rather painfully in El’una’s invisible grip. “I have met my share of Trevelyans, madame, and a-hem… forgive me, but... you are not one of them.” 

El’una cocks her head; no one in the position that this elf is in should have any right to look as amused as he does, and yet he does not struggle in her grasp. His pale blonde hair falls over his face as gleaming white teeth are bared in a wide grin. 

“You doubt me.” She announces, taking in the appearance of the elf, seeking any indication of who he is or where his allegiances lay. She starts with the obvious. “An elf with no vallaslin is following me around in a city of thousands and yet proclaims to know that I am not who I say I am.” She jostles her captor a little as she speaks through clenched teeth. “I suppose your master would prefer that I killed you, hmm? Give him one more reason to loathe me? Shall I satisfy him? Spill your blood in tribute to his true name? Speak!” 

The elf laughs hoarsely as though she has just recited a dirty limerick, “N-no. I have reason to believe you are… hmmm… confused, ma’am. As a rule I avoid employers who view me as expendable. If you loosen your very tight but admittedly rather intimate grip on my throat I shall be more than happy to enlighten you.”  

She glares at the elf, but when she feels a muscle twitching in her jaw she reins in her emotion. “I will allow you to speak.” El’una decides, letting the elf slide down the wall until his feet touch the ground. “But if you get the craving to attack me or my companion, I urge you to remember that I will disembowel you on the spot in a downright unimaginable and painful way.” 

The elf massages his throat and cracks his neck a time or two before replying. “Yes, well. You have little to fear from me, Inquisitor. We have actually done business before I understand… though, it is understandably difficult to get familiar with a person through letters. Allow me to introduce myself properly; you may call me Zevran Arainai. Assassin for hire and former Antivan Crow. Lady Leliana told me that she was lax on the details of my arrival, but I must admit I was not expecting such a bruising welcome.” 

El’una feels her cheeks flush and mortification instantly settles neatly on her at the realization that she was fully prepared to pull this man’s head off with magic thirty seconds ago.  “I’m so sorry.” She says. “Are… are you alright? By Mythal, why didn’t you approach me earlier… and much less ominously?”

Zevran waves a hand dismissively. “I have grown accustomed to people trying to kill me the first time we meet.” He adjusts his cloak around his shoulders and for the first time El’una sees the ornate daggers strapped to his waist. “I fear that an armed elf approaching you directly on the street would have gotten me killed; not merely threatened.”

“Well… you still have my deepest apologies.” She says. “Leliana mentioned an agent in Minrathous. She sent you to keep an eye on me?” 

“Not exactly. Leliana told me to follow the agents of the one who calls himself Fen’Harel, wherever they may be in the city. I saw you and your handsome companion here in the marketplace and I knew right away who you were… or rather, supposed to be, so I saw fit to make sure that I was the only elf in Minrathous following people.” 

“And are there any other elves following me?”

Zevran shakes his head. “No. The dozen or so elves that I’ve been able to identify seem to have no idea who you are, or that you are even here.” 

“A dozen.” El’una repeats. “There’s a dozen inside the city? What is to happen to these dozen or so elves that work for Solas?” El’una asks, raising an eyebrow. “The longer they roam the city unchecked the more trouble they’ll cause; they’ll either close in on me, or start recruiting other elves to their cause.” 

“Oh recruitment began ages ago. I told you I’ve only positively identified about a dozen… I suspect that the lower classes of free elves and the slaves have a much higher ratio of agents.” Zevran notes the concerned pull of El’una’s face and quickly speaks again, “But you mustn’t fret, Inquisitor. I’m not only here to follow them about. I’m at your command; Leliana only sent me here with that request. What I would do with my unique and varied skill set is entirely up to you, Inquisitor.” 

El’una replaces her staff over her shoulder and thinks. She’s not entirely convinced that she can trust this man. He certainly does seem earnest, and she recalls employing his services for the Inquisition at one time, but if Solas and the amount of agents he turned out to have was any indication of allegiance mattering, well… it just wasn’t very strong reasoning, was it?

“Why did you accept this task?” She asks finally. 

“Lady Leliana contacted me some weeks ago, urging me to meet with her in Orlais. She promised work, and as an assassin contracting myself out alone, I rarely am in a position to turn down an offer. She told me of the outcome of the Inquisition, and the threat that had taken root under everyone’s noses. She told me of your desire to ensure the world does not come to an unpleasant end, and promised me a small fortune if I could be amenable to assisting you and herself by extension.”

El’una bites the inside of her cheek; he certainly seemed to have his story straight, but gold is an easy thing to hide intention behind. “Sending an elf alone into the capital is dangerous, but you seem confident. Why?”

Zevran shrugs, “I tend to slip past people’s notice unless I want to be noticed.” He explains. “Besides, I am not dressed like a slave or a beggar. I think my occupation speaks for itself: Would you approach me on the street looking for a fight after only a glance?” He asks, quirking an eyebrow and sweeping a hand to proudly indicate the leather armour and weapons that decked him. 

“I suppose not.” She says. He has a point. “And what’s your take on Solas’ plans?” She asks next. 

“Ah, now it is your turn to doubt me, Inquisitor.” Zevran jokes, his teeth glinting in contrast to his dark skin when he shoots her another coy grin. “I understand your hesitance.” 

“Then give me reason to have unwavering certainty.”

“There is no such thing, my lady.” Zevran scoffs. “There is nothing in the world that we can count on. Even the faith that we will wake in the morning is little more than an assumption.” 

“You make a poor case.” El’una retorts.

“I am only wary of making promises that I can’t keep, your worship.” Another grin. “But I will answer your question, if it means you’ll refrain from crushing me against a stone wall again.”

“A good incentive to speak with brevity.” El’una concedes. 

“Lady Leliana has been kind enough to fill me in on the somewhat extraneous details that have dictated your goal. How could I refuse her request? I am little more than a wandering cutthroat for hire, and though my ears are pointed, I have no history or connection to the elves. I understand that I am rather like your friend Solas in that I was neither raised in an alienage, nor in the back of an aravel.” He pulls a pair of weather leather gloves from his belt and begins pulling them over his fingers with a practiced grace. “I’m quite attached to the way the world is: There is murder, violence and cruelty lurking on the slimy underside of every polished stone. Assassinations and morally bankrupt political machinations leave the world in a constant state of change: Empires crumble to dust and crowns topple from lofty heights whenever the winds blow in the right direction, but it is my world and my time. The world that our friend wishes to bring back is dead and gone for a reason.” Zevran claps his leather clad hands together and winks. “Besides, as I said, Lady Leliana promised a handsome reward for my time. If the world is going to end, I’d prefer to live out my last days in comfort, surrounded by wine and beautiful distractions.”

“Hard to argue with that.” El’una admits, mind already moving pieces and putting them into play. “Very well… you have my ear and my trust… for now.” She gestures to Feynriel, “I must return to the estate; Feynriel’s mentor will be wondering where he is. For the time being, continue your efforts to track down and surveil any that you think may belong to Solas. If you find any indication that they have determined my true name, or if they start leaving the city rapidly and all at once, I’d have you send word right away.” She turns to leave; her limbs are starting to feel heavy and her mind is starting to dull. Catching herself, she halts. “Now that I think of it… if I’m to send word of any kind to you, where will my crow find you?”

Zevran laughs. “Have no fear, my lady. Crows have a way of finding me regardless of where I may be.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took way longer than it should have, but I've gone back and done HUGE overhauls on chapters 1-4, so that sucked up a big amount of time. Check them out if you like!

Confident that her work in the lab is done, she spends more and more time in the bowels of the estate, sleeping; dreaming - flitting in and out of the dreams of those slumbering nearby and around the estate as she learns how to seamlessly create a doorway into a dream and become a perfectly blended aspect of it beyond detection or cognizance. 

Currently she sleeps the day away in the windowless storage room that has more or less become her battlefield. 

The room is unadorned and unfurnished, save for a bedroll spread in the middle of the floor, a small table set against the wall covered in herbs and lyrium potions, and a variety of candles that line the perimeter of the stone-walled room. In the weeks since she started using it regularly, she’s made it her own, and a comfortable and confident sort of energy dwells in the place: Feynriel does not visit often; upon getting her set up and aiding her with the basics, he informed her that the energy, emotions and memories left by another person in such a personal space can complicate the process of being able to Dream cleanly and efficiently: Any encounters between the pair of them are had either waking, or in the Fade. 

The door of the storage room is locked from the inside for good reason; in the middle of the floor lays a familiar looking Free Marcher woman who has dwelled in the estate for some time, but disconcertingly seems to flicker from time to time and take on the momentary appearance of someone quite different.  

She is sound asleep, only twitching slightly from time to time as the tallow candles around her burn away. Every now and then she whispers or mutters something, but she does not wake: the pipe full of burned roto valerius that has rolled out of her hand and across the stone floor ensures that. 

A heavy and well-used tome is spread open on the other side of her bedroll to a page that is covered in small, faded writing and intricate diagrams. Next to the book is a small knife, and on the stone floor, directly above where El’una’s head rests on a scratchy pillow, there is a sigil composed of something dark and shaped rather like a bear. There is a heavy scent of oil, juniper, peppermint, and copper in the air; to someone just entering the room it would be overwhelming, but it does not affect the sleeping mage.

Instead, she walks the bank of a clear, crisp stream of her choosing: She’s put herself here, or rather put this place around her. It was a place south of Denerim that she used to visit as a child; the stream had long since dried up, but the memory of the place lived on in the Fade, making it easy for her mind to find purchase in the metaphysical possibilities that were easy to overwhelm a stimulated mind. 

Today she has chosen to be alone; she knows it to be early afternoon, so Feynriel is likely occupied with Quintus, and the night previously she had shared a stunning boat ride down a stunning green river with Zevran while he shared with her a bottle of wine and his latest intelligence, so there’s little call to seek out her assassin.

Nighttime is when she either accompanies Feynriel into the Fade to learn more about it, or coordinates with her colleagues on their progress using the carefully crafted doorways that Feynriel has painstakingly taught her to create and utilize. Daytime is when she flexes her muscles and pushes the boundaries of her fresh knowledge, determining for herself what she’s capable of and what she cannot do.

The details of her dreams are cleaner now, where they might have once looked like they were viewed through smoked glass and eyes that belonged to someone who had one too many ales. A lifelike intricacy rustles the graceful tendrils of the large willows that line the stream and the trickling water sparkles and gurgles with a precision that returns El’una to a happier time.

She hears a rustle of movement and is unsurprised to see the familiar lupine form keeping pace with her behind the line of trees. Solas has resumed his habit of keeping watch of her dreams of late; she had indeed tripped the trap that lured Feynriel to her aid, but she’d be stupid to assume that Solas would deduce her actions in the Fade to be merely out of spite: He has not resumed his interest in her dreams because he pines for her, but rather because he knows she is up to something.

As she continues meandering peacefully along the bank of the stream, she is reminded of the first few times that she encountered him in the Fade upon their parting: In those days, she was quick to start after the wolf, invoking his name and reaching out to him, only for the beast to turn from her and trot out of sight, leaving no trail to follow. She is of the mind to pursue him again; Dreaming came easily to her when he had started her on the path so many years ago, but now, with the time available to focus on growing the skill with Feynriel’s help, she has progressed quickly in a short time: If she had to, she could give chase to wherever the wolf may flee, but realizes that now is not the time to put that theory to the test.

She catches herself darkly hoping that it pains him to be here. A petty sentiment, but one that stubbornly persists as she glimpses a wisp of fur blur through the mottled light that hangs comfortably under the trees. She hopes that when he wakes he feels longing for the beautiful, serene vision that she has created as his eyes flicker open and he shivers in a rough bedroll spread across a stone floor not unlike the one she currently occupies. 

At least she can find happiness in her self-created stream and forest of willows; for Solas, such a place must seem like misery. 

With that thought in mind, and a firm conviction to use this time to her advantage without letting Solas think he’s getting away with anything, El’una uses her connection to the Fade and carefully dictates the time of year: she was frequently warned away from this place in her youth during the spring - rutting Hart were not something that one wanted to antagonize. 

There is a crashing sound in the trees, followed by the sound of deadfall snapping under weighty hooves and antlers scraping trees. A trumpeting bleat echoes around the stream,and a brief period of pronounced scrambling is followed by silence.

“That was rather clever.” 

El’una turns to face the source of the compliment, and is met with the image of a small, sprite-like spirit, dangling its nearly opaque feet in the water. A tiny foot flicks up and crystal clear water is sent into the air where it hangs and shimmers for a bit longer than water would in waking life. 

It’s a rather endearing little thing, this spirit; much like the atmosphere of her dream it portrays a likeness of pristinely childlike purity. 

It continues to swish its feet in the stream and says, “I wouldn’t have been able to come up with something like that.” Eyes like clear river quartz gaze into her own. “You possess considerable talent in this place.” 

For some reason, El’una feels her cheeks flush; this spirit is so effortlessly complimentary despite having no idea what she has had to do in order to get to such a level of understanding of how the Fade works. If she’s completely honest, she doesn’t actually feel much like someone who should be given praise for her growth. “Have we met before?” She asks the child-like vision. 

It giggles; carefree and innocent. “Not personally, I’m afraid, but the wolf you chased off has spoken about you. I like following him, you see. Pride is such a strange being, and I find myself drawn to trace his steps in the event that he needs me.” It slaps its feet in the water once more before scooting back on the bank and pushing itself to its feet. “Sometimes he gets lost; needs to be reminded that it is impossible to possess all the answers, and that the ones he does possess do not necessarily make him any more wise for it.” Wisps of crystalline hair float around the spirit’s head. “He followed you because he’s nervous and concerned for you; he doesn’t know what it is you’re attempting to do, but of late he’s been fixated on tracking you down. I’m not sure what your intention is regarding Pride, but you’ve certainly got him looking over his shoulders; I would be careful if I were you.” 

El’una considers the spirit and its words; it speaks as though it has known Solas for a considerably long time, but the way it mentions that it traces his steps inclines her to think that the spirit often refrains from directly interacting with him. Odd. Regardless, this spirit seems to be more interested in the fact that it’s speaking with El’una rather than just hearing of her, and for that reason (and the fact that it can probably give her information,) El’una introduces herself.

“El’una.” The spirit repeats. “This is a name that feels good to say. I wish that my own was as pleasing to hear.” It sighs rather wistfully.

“I can’t very well be the judge of that if I haven’t heard it, can I?” El’una prompts gently.

“Of course: I am Humility.” 

Oh. No wonder it feels compelled to follow Solas around; a spiritual embodiment of humility would by nature be drawn to a manifestation of Pride if only out of raw curiousity - the fact that he moves through the Fade with such surety no doubt compels it further to provide levity to the passionate soul. 

“It is a perfectly fine name.” El’una states. “A fine name for a fine spirit. Tell me then; why stop and chat? You seem quite invested in keeping tabs on Pride - it’s almost as though you worry for him. Why stay here after I removed him from this place?”

“I suppose because I wanted to understand why he appears to be so stuck on figuring you out: I tried explaining to him not long ago that the laws had been cracked, and you knew it, but at the time he refused to believe it; I doubt he thought that you were capable of controlling such things.”

El’una frowns and bites her lip: Laws? This is the first she’s heard of any laws. She does recall the overwhelming realization in the clearing back in Ferelden regarding the nature of magic itself, but this talk of cracked things and laws just adds questions on top of questions. “You mentioned that something had cracked; have you any idea what, specifically it was?”

Humility heaves a pensive sigh and is quiet for some time as it seems to be putting together an explanation. It forges forward finally with an uncertain hum. “Pride asked me the same thing when I mentioned it. Perhaps ‘cracked’ is the wrong term for it, but hmmm… maybe re-organized or shuffled about it the right way to put it. For some reason, at the time, the pervading perception of the thing in question was that of some sort of glass vessel - a jar, I think it’s called. I suppose whoever came up with this perception more or less molded the vernacular that accompanied it.” A dismissive and shimmering hand is waved through the air, “Regardless of what it is called, the proverbial order of things was swapped about for some reason; Pride wants to know who was responsible, and of course why it has affected you.”

“Affected me?” El’una repeats, lifting an eyebrow. 

“Look around us!” The spirit chortles. “You are not like me, and you are not like Pride; people like you are strange, befuddled things that wander through this place like lost children. And yet you’ve created this beautiful, stable place! This may very well be the best stream I’ve ever visited; it feels so cool and looks so clear.” 

El’una blushes again, but presses on. “So what you’re telling me, is that in my effort to master staffless magic in the Fade, I caught the attention of something that saw fit to alter existence itself such that I could move past the interference of the Veil.” She tries her best to sum it up in terms that both she and the spirit will understand and connect with, but realizes when Humility blankly stares at her that she may have been off the mark. She heaves a sigh and tries again. “You told Pride that something in the Fade helped me, yes? Was it a spirit, like you? Was it compelled to me like you are to Pride, due to some aspect of my character?”

A hand lifts and Humility taps its fingers against its translucent chin. “I myself have been trying to answer that question since Pride and I last spoke; he asked me the same thing: He asked who helped you - I think he thinks it’s a spirit too. It must be. That is the only explanation that makes any sort of sense.” The hand drops back to its side. “I stayed behind after you drove Pride away because I hoped that perhaps meeting you properly would give me some idea of the one that helped you.” 

“Any thoughts so far?” El’una is just as interested as Solas is about this mysterious spirit in light of Humility’s revelations. 

Humility hums again and stamps its tiny feet rapidly on the grass a little as though it is conflicted. “It isn’t here. Not right now. And talking with you hasn’t been as much help as I thought it would be; no offense El’una, but you don’t appear to be much different than most.”

“None taken.” El’una quips. 

“Don’t get me wrong; as I said, you’re very skilled. Having such command over a place such as this is not an idle task for most people, and Pride does seem threatened by you - “

“Does he speak of me ever? To you or anybody else?” El’una cuts in, unable to help herself.

Humility stares off to the side for a moment, weighing the question. “Hmmm… not directly. He is hurt by your presence in his life, and even though it is no longer a direct presence, it hurts him all the more. Pride does not like to admit… weakness is the wrong word… but rather I suppose it would be more fair to say that he does not like to accept dilemma, for all that it is: He is a being of conviction and certainty. He acts out of surety and conviction, for decisions and actions arrived at in such a manner are righteous by his perspective; they cannot go wrong. If there is doubt weighing heavily on one side of a decision, it is difficult for him to fully commit to the action required. 

“To properly answer your question though… he is still very much lost in you. He does not speak of you; especially not since the last time he and I spoke, but as an observer it is very plain to see that he is not merely threatened by you - he also deeply laments your place in all of this. You noticed that he’s resumed watching your dreams of late… I think the best answer to your question lays not in words spoken to others, but in the expression on his face as he spectates. I know little of what it is like to feel so torn; I am a spirit and my purpose is pure and uncomplicated, but the wolf… there is a longing that pours off of him that is impossible to overlook.” 

“I see.” El’una whispers, not sure how she feels about this; on one hand, she is rankled by what Humility has told her; if he longs so badly for her, what’s to stop him from just… speaking with her? On the other hand, there is a warmth in her core at the knowledge that he appears to still have some attachment to her; some feeling. “And where you present when I forced him to become Vitriol?” She asks quietly, still ashamed of what depths she sunk to that night. 

Shaking its head from side to side, Humility stoops to pluck a few wildflowers from a brightly coloured cluster nearby. “I assume that you refer to the single instance in which I was unable to follow him. I’m not sure what happened to him, as he has not seen fit to tell me of that time, but you mentioned that he became Vitriol?”

El’una nods, wishing that the tightness in her throat would go away. “I… I needed to create a place that was steeped in dangerous and powerful emotion… I had no idea about his spiritual nature, so I accidentally…I created a trap for him without knowing; an unignorable call that he would be forced to answer. It affected him… badly. Pride became Vitriol, and I almost lost myself to him.”

“Oh.” Humility says, breathing in the scent of the bunch of flowers in its hands.  “These smell very nice.” It comments before dropping its hands, flowers still bunched tightly in tiny fists. “You seem upset. Now that I know what happened, and that you know and accept that you made a mistake, I can tell Pride and help.” 

El’una feels herself smiling properly at the spirit’s words: She cannot help but be reminded so, so thoroughly of Cole and his endless calling to help others. This reminder does little to help the tears that have pooled in her eyes; she misses the boy each and every day. She wonders where he is, what he’s up to, and silently resolves to make a point of finding out in the coming days.

“Help?” El’una repeats, stowing her thoughts of Cole away for now. “How, precisely?”

“Well you’re clearly upset about what happened. Pride was upset too; he didn’t tell me, but it has been since that encounter that he’s been especially wary and seemingly on tenterhooks. You yourself admitted that you had no intention of causing him any pain, and the fact that you did was a mistake: Had you explained to me that you knew exactly what you were doing, and that you cared little for the impact of your error, it would be different. But you are like him - that longing that I mentioned earlier, it pours off of you too. If I can make him understand that you did not mean to hurt him and accept responsibility for your actions, it will make both of you feel better, don’t you think?”

She feels herself laugh harshly, sniffles a little. Then she says, “You don’t think he might be upset to find out that you’ve been talking with me? What if he deems you too dangerous for it and… does something?”

Humility blinks vacantly at El’una. “Upset? With me? For speaking with another?” It begins methodically tucking wildflowers into its ghostly hair. “You lot really must learn to get over your silly assumptions about people. Not everything is a conspiracy - he may not be overwhelmed by it, but being able to know of your modesty regarding the matter will serve to quell some of the pain on both sides.” It offers her an opalescent smile. “Besides, you’re much better at admitting things than he is: Because of this, I get to help you both!”

“And how are you intending to help me?” El’una asks, apprehension rising for the first time since this conversation began: Cole is one thing, but he was also a spirit who had taken human form in the world -  this is the Fade; Humility’s idea of help could be very different here.

“We still don’t know of what it is that re-arranged things in order to make them work for you. Asking you hasn’t been of much aid; you don’t seem to have any better idea of what it is either, and since I answered your question about Pride, perhaps you can help me understand you better by letting me see things from your perspective.” It is a suggestion offered with light-hearted, transparent levity.

El’una lets this sink in for a moment; the only people that she had encountered in real life that had opened a door to a spirit were referred to as abominations. She knows exactly what it is this spirit is asking for, but for both her own sake and for that of Humility, she is entirely unwilling to oblige.

“I do not think that would be wise.” She says truthfully. “I don’t doubt that you have noble aims in mind, but it would be dangerous for us both.” 

“You doubt yourself so much.” Humility chides. “Given the grasp that you have on this place, and your understanding of what I am, you are at no risk.”

“You have heard what happened to Pride by my hand. Try seeing it. Try experiencing it.” El’una scoffs harshly. “I would not have my own feelings twist you into something you are not for little more than a peek into my mind.”

“And that’s all it will be.” Counters Humility. “But a peek; I only wish to see all of you, as you are: Your time with Pride, your time before. What drives you. It’s plain to see that whatever saw fit to help you before is not here now and has no intention of making itself known.”

“And your interest in this?” El’una inquires. “Should you find out, do you intend to inform Pride as well? Have you considered that Pride may take it upon himself to destroy whatever aids me?” 

“Pride does not destroy spirits.” Humility states. 

“You say that now.” El’una retorts. “No. I can’t rightfully consent to this. I would seek to know this mysterious spirit as well, but I cannot allow it to happen in a fashion as dangerous as this: I am a walking bundle of intense feelings.” She waves a hand towards Humility. “And you. Look at you; you’re purity embodied. Your purpose is clear and unclouded. Being a part of me for only a moment would surely spoil you.” It is time for her to leave, she knows. Gauging time is difficult in the Fade, and she must continue to function in waking as well. This realization brings the impression of a distant and far off banging sound from somewhere beyond the willows.

Humility looks down at its feet, flowers still dripping from its hands and hair. It looks like nothing more than a scolded child as it says, “Very well. I should know better myself.” It looks up though, and says, “Is… is it alright if I come back, sometimes? As I mentioned, you’re far better conversation than Pride is, and this is such a beautiful place.” 

El’una sighs; the pounding sound is getting louder, jarring her from her concentration and immersement. “If you can find me, you may visit. I must warn you though; I won’t always be in a place like this. Best be careful.” 

“I will.” The spirit promises, beginning to turn away.

“Humility.” El’una calls after it. “A final thing: When you render my apology to Pride... tell him I’d speak with him, and that for the safety of his men, I beseech him to leave Tevinter. Tell him that…tell him that I…” She trails off, unable to attach that one, final mark of sentimentality. “Never mind.” 

The fabric of the dream falls away around the pristine visage of Humility, and El’una awakes on a cold floor to the pounding of fists against wood and somebody shouting her name. She glances around in darkness and realizes that the candles have all burned down; how long had she been asleep? Blearily, her hand finds the floor and she pushes herself up to her feet before seizing control over the magic of her glamour and manifesting a small flame in the palm of her hand. 

She finds her way to the door, manages the locks and opens it a crack and sees the harried face of Feynriel in the gap.

“You’re late!” He pants, expanding further at her sleep-dazed look of confusion. “Dinner party with Magister Pavus!” He gasps, clutching his side. “People are wondering where you’ve gone!”

Shit.


	17. Chapter 17

It’s nothing short of a mad scramble from the depths of the estate up to her quarters on the third floor. She moves as quickly as her feet and drowsy mind will carry her, keeping to the passages in the estate that she knows to be less busy than others; encountering a group of magisters with disheveled hair and common dress would be sure to raise questions that she hasn’t the time to answer. 

Feynriel has returned to the dining hall at her request, charged with coming up with some sort of excuse for her tardiness; the effects of the roto valerius are still impacting her mind, and quick thinking is certainly not something she is adept at currently. 

The door to her chambers is flung open and she nearly trips over the edge of a rug in her haste to reach the wardrobe. Her toe catches the leg of the heavy writing desk in the centre of the room and she hisses a few quiet profanities in elven, but does not stop to favour her throbbing toe. Instead, she finishes her dazed stumble to the wardrobe and wrenches the doors open: Red? No. She had been favouring that one a lot lately. Given that this was meant to be her first prominent social event as Lady Trevelyan, she would have to wear something she hasn’t been seen in yet. 

She utters a frustrated groan as she tears frantically through the selection of beautiful gowns in the wardrobe, inwardly cursing herself for her lack of care; she had been so focused on perfecting her skills in the Fade that she had completely forgotten about this soiree. She supposes it can’t all be viewed as a bungle, however: Meeting Humility resulted in a far more fruitful experience than it would have if the spirit had not decided to stick around. 

“Ah.” She gasps, her fingers finding the smooth fabric of a silver gown composed of taffeta and golden lace: It’s perfect; ostentatious, eye-catching, elegant and incredibly assuming. It is more or less ripped from its place in the wardrobe and El’una is relieved as she begins tearing off her traveling clothes, that this gown doesn’t involve any sort of corsetry that requires assistance to lace. 

She wriggles out of her trousers, balancing on one foot and keeping the gown hung over her right arm as she frees herself from the remaining leg of the pants and scurries over to the partition nearby. The dress is doffed over the side of the elegant fixture and her jerkin and shirt are removed in quick succession, cast carelessly on the floor around her. 

As she begins inserting herself into the beautifully crafted gown, it occurs to her that she’s going to have to explain herself when she arrives in the dining hall; her story needs to match up with Feynriel’s, but there’s no chance of him leaving the party for a second time without raising eyebrows. There is another uttered curse, and El’una hauls the shoulder of the dress up and closes her eyes, pausing for the first time since she began her frantic rush from the basement.

Walking the Fade to find someone asleep is one thing, but she hasn’t the time for a nap right now: She reaches out with her magic, aware of the discord between her magic and the veil, pushing against the disharmony and triumphing. 

This is hard; this is an entirely different kind of magic than she’s ever used: Drawing from the Fade to manifest something in the physical world was tricky enough, but being able to use her own connection to the Fade to communicate with someone else’s connection was a completely new undertaking: One that is not proving to be kind to her. 

She grunts with exertion as she forces her eyes to stay shut and lifts a hand to catch the stream of blood that is leaking from her nose before it spoils her gown. All she needs is for Feynriel to get one word. Just a single word. One.

_ Indigestion. _

She focuses on the message and the intent behind it hard enough that she actually begins to feel a bit sick, though she can’t be sure if this is from the idea itself, or from her nerves. 

There is no way of knowing if Feynriel has heard her through the Fade; she thinks she’s following the right threads; each person leaves a unique signature in the Fade. If one is familiar enough with it - as she is with Feynriel - it is easier to pinpoint their connection and use it. It wasn’t until Feynriel had explained this to her that she realized exactly why the old stories spoke so solemnly of the danger of Dreamers: Being able to force her way into Feynriel’s mind to pass on an alibi was one thing, but being skilled enough to force one’s way into the minds of a military commander, or even an entire army at once? Terrifying. She’s also almost certain that Solas can do it, too. 

The threads that she holds onto quiver in her mental grasp, and she gets the sense that this might not be a pleasant experience for Feynriel either; even he isn’t accustomed to this method of Dreaming, and El’una is sure that where a skill like this calls for finesse and accuracy, she’s more or less ham-fistedly cramming the thought into her friend’s brain. She receives no reply other than a vague sense of understanding that he most definitely heard her, and deciding that will have to suffice, she finally lets loose the breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding. 

“Right.” She pants, not taking the time to catch her breath before scrambling into the rest of the dress, buttoning it up, quickly re-arranging her hair into an elegant bun, and hastily applying some makeup on the visage of her human face. She dashes for the door, nearly sliding on the hem of her gown when she halts suddenly upon realizing that she has forgotten shoes; humans always wear shoes. 

An anguished snarl leaves her as she finds the most appropriate slippers for this outfit and hurriedly crams her feet into them, not bothering to fasten them before click-clacking her way across the marbled floor and out of the chamber. 

Her flight to the dining hall is slower than her sprint from the cellars due to the inhibiting slippers, but she makes good time, only slowing her pace when she nears the dining hall; she knows enough of nobility to understand that despite her lateness, it would be untoward to enter the room with anything less than an air of cool, collected apathy. 

So it goes that cool, collected apathy is precisely what Lady Trevelyan projects. As she nears the doors of the dining hall, she catches her reflection in a nearby pane of glass and nearly startles herself; the woman she sees is tall, bold and imposing. Her jaw is set in a rather arrogant expression, and blue-grey eyes burn from under blackly powdered lids. This is the face of a woman who  _ would  _ stand against Fen’Harel by whatever means her stature would afford her. This face was made to conquer men and brazenly mow down any who would dare to oppose her. This face was made to intimidate and overpower, and it is terrifying. 

El’una shakes her head and tears her gaze away from the face that is not hers. Convincing herself that the deep seated twinge of fear anxiety that had just overwhelmed her was merely the aftereffects of the herb she inhaled, she resumes her path to the hall, taking a right and entering a rich hallway lined with golden candelabras and luxurious red carpeting. Mirrors hang upon the walls, and where they are absent, there are portraits instead; something El’una has come to accept as commonplace in the Imperium: If one can’t admire their own face, they are most certainly invited to admire those of greater ancestors. 

Unable to resist, she gazes at her face properly in a mirror, hoping to ensure that the terrifying visage she had glimpsed in the other hall was gone. 

Something moves within the reflection and she whips around, magic at the ready in order to defend herself. She holds this stance for only a moment before her hand drops to her side and a rush of air falls from her lips.

“Cole?!” She gasps. “What are you doing here?”

The young man stares at her from behind a veil of mousy blonde hair, but he does not smile: El’una hasn’t known him to smile since she helped him choose to retain his spirit-like qualities. The lack of expression is not shocking; his sudden appearance in a magister’s estate in the middle of Tevinter is, however.

“Motivated but terrified; she does not want to end up in chains like so many others. A name is a weapon, and hers is sharp: She will go because no one else has a name as sharp as hers.” He informs her, not answering her question. “Crowded - so many people here. People not like me. These people hate me - want to silence my mind so that they aren’t afraid anymore. I will show them that they are right to be afraid.” 

“Cole.” El’una says, grasping the lad by his shoulders. “Cole, I don’t have time, I’m already - I’m late for - .”

“Grey Wardens in the Temple but there is no blight. Something is wrong; the sanctuary shouldn’t be screaming but it is. I must send word. I must find the others and get out before…” His gaze finally seems to put El’una into focus, and he stares at eyes that don’t belong to her. “You took her face and her voice so that she can keep fighting. Quiet, peaceful, free. She is somewhere else now, but she is also here too and she can still help. You helped  _ her _ .”

El’una tosses a frantic glance over her shoulders before tugging Cole into a small alcove with her. “Thank you, Cole. I’m glad to hear it, but… but you can’t be here! What are you doing?! This place is dangerous for you.” She whispers, knowing that every passing minute means more uncomfortable questions when - and if - she finally gets to the dining hall. She squeezes his shoulder encouragingly; despite the surprise, she is actually overwhelmed by happiness at the sight of him and his beat up hat.

“Broken, bloody, dying - red words older than age roll down your neck. He told you everything that he wanted to tell you by the pond, but couldn’t, so you became like him so you could remind him not to forget. Breath hurts; scraping - scratching, thin - more hurt than hurt can hold.”

El’una pulls her hand away from Cole and steps back as far as the small space will allow. “You aren’t going to hurt me?” She entreats, recalling the mortally wounded soldier that Cole had ‘helped’ in the courtyard of Skyhold a very long time ago.

Expression ghosts across Cole’s face for the first time and he looks confused. “More hurt will not help; dying will not fix the pain.” He shakes his head. “Another in the Fade; simple, small and sweet. It made you remember me; there was pain in the space where I used to be; spiderwebs and a box filled with music and people. I came, to fill the space, but… I do not think I’m any of the things that the other one is.”

“Look,” El’una begins, her heart feeling warmed by Cole’s admission that he came because of something she dreamed. “I must go to this party thing. I’m already late. You can… you can stay if you would like. I don’t want you to leave; I’d love to catch up with you, but please try and be careful.”

He looks over her shoulder and out into the hallway. “Knives and wine. Smoke and laughing. She doesn’t want to be there. What if Arcturus drinks too much again? I don’t want to die.” 

El’una restrains a shudder at his words; she’s more than aware that there’ll be slaves in the dining hall, but she is not at all prepared for this to turn into some sort of blood magic orgy. Given that Dorian is hosting it, she is inclined to hope that it does not.

“I’ll come with you.” He announces. “But I will be careful. The mages in there… they will not be kind to me.”

El’una purses her lips in a thin line, “Hence why I’d prefer if you stayed away for now. If you feel like you must accompany me though, do take care.” She pulls Cole close and embraces him in a tight hug. One that is reciprocated with a warmth that only someone like him could grant. After a moment, she pulls away and with a final squeeze of his arm, she sets off towards the end of the hall.

__________________________________________________________________

‘Dining hall’ is a rather modest term for the room she currently occupies. ‘Grand gallery’ would be more appropriate, and ‘superb ballroom’ would be ideal, she decided shortly upon entering the place. The ceilings are vaulted at least forty feet high, and every expanse of wall and ceiling that isn’t covered in mirrors, is layered with pristine gold foil. Beautiful chandeliers hang above the room of guests and the oil lamps on them refract through the hundreds of clear crystals that compose the structure of the fixtures, casting moving rainbows over people and surfaces. It smells strongly of salt and cooking spices, and the scent of indulgence mingles in the air along with the aroma of expensive perfumes and oils. 

The dress of the party-goers is equally as decadent, and El’una would wager that the exemplary tableau of Tevinter culture before her eyes would even put the most eccentric Orlesian fashions to shame: It could certainly be said that Orlesian fashion is the more vibrant of the two, ever-boastful of the rich colours that could be dyed into expensive fabrics. But where the formal garb of the high class tonight is without a doubt more monochrome, it is by no means modest: Volume is one carry-over between the two nations, and El’una notes that large, trailing skirts are commonplace among the women in the room, although they seem to be comprised of many layers of thin, breathable fabrics, rather than the stiff, heavy silk damask that is favoured in Orlais. Her concentration meanders from Dorian and the magisters he is conversing with as El’una’s eyes follow the path of the gorgeous female mage who has just passed by. 

The garb of the men is no less elegant; structured pieces and sharp angles give all of the guests at the party an air of calculated premeditation, as if everything they may or may not do is just as well thought out as the fifteen buckles they specifically asked to be put on the side of their jerkin. 

She averts her eyes uncomfortably as the crystal glass in her hand is refilled with wine by the hand of an elven slave. She murmurs her thanks and waits until the adolescent boy has walked away before she can lift her head again and return to the conversation. 

“The slaves make the Lady uncomfortable.” Notes the magister sitting to the left of Dorian. He gestures at El’una from across the table with fingers that still clench a bit of dried fish. He speaks with a mouth that is still full of it. “Magister Pavus tells me you have been here for over a month now, Lady Trevelyan. Surely you have seen the proof that your southern assumptions about our people are little more than misconceptions?”

El’una sits slightly straighter in her seat, drawing her head up high and taking a sip from the freshly poured glass of wine. “I certainly will have tales to tell upon my return to my fellow Marchers that highlight the truly resplendent culture you have here in Tevinter.” She says conversationally. Beside the magister, Dorian raises an eyebrow and tilts his chin ever so slightly downwards. “I am more than happy to tear down as many walls of misunderstanding between our two countries as possible, Magister Donus: Just because I find no comfort in being served by a slave, does not mean I think ill of you personally, or your nation as a whole.” She finishes with a warm and open smile, holding her drink out to him so that they may meet their glasses and make their trust for each other known and binding. After they have done this, she looks about the room, her eyes skimming the dancefloor and the beautiful fountain set into the far wall. Her gaze dances over the slaves lined up around the perimeter of the room, and the Tevinter nobility that mills around them as if they were not even there. “Besides, they all appear to be in good health and dress: They are clearly cared for.” She takes another look around and stops when she realizes something out of place: Among the dozen or so different houses denoted by unique uniforms, not one of them belongs to House Pavus; did Dorian elect to forgo his own estate’s slaves in order to make her feel more comfortable? She looks at him across the table, hoping wordlessly for some sort of answer, but is unsurprised when she doesn’t receive one. 

“Of course they are.” Another magister El’una knows to be named as Pegarian sneers. “If you southerners would at least try to understand Tevinter culture and history, you might understand that we’re not all a bunch of idiotic, blood-minded madmen.” His hooked nose disappears into his own glass of wine as he takes a long drink, and when his face reappears, it is no happier than it had before the drink.

Dorian chuckles light-heartedly now and Donus tucks back into his fish, looking wholly uninterested in the path this conversation has taken. “My dear Pegarian, have some more wine! The party is in full swing and you’re still concerned about what people on the other side of the continent think of you. You can see that Lady Trevelyan is enjoying herself; why not do the same?” The quality of his tone is amicable enough, but there lays an underlying hint that any further efforts to sour the joviality of Dorian’s party would  _ not _ be tolerated. As Pegarian’s large nose disappears into his wine again, Dorian turns his head ever so slightly in El’una’s direction and winks at her carefully. The gesture helps, but she’s still unsure of whose teeth she’d like to shatter against the table more; Donus, for trying to justify the keeping of slaves by reason that it must be alright, so long as they are fed and dressed; or Pegarian for being an arrogant and ignorant fool who scowls into the bottom of his wine glass instead of taking stock of the ethical barbarism that makes it possible for him to drink at all.

She is suddenly aware of a presence beside her and looks up to see the figure of Quintus outlined against the prismatic backdrop of colour and gold behind him. Like everyone else at the dinner, he is dressed in his most outstanding finery; a black doublet that looks to be crafted from sort of scale hide that almost looks wet, it’s so shiny. The details of the doublet are dominated by fine silver thread that embroiders the seams and cuffs. Fine boots that have likely never seen a speck of dirt adorn his feet, and a silver broach bearing the sigil of his house rests over his heart; it is shaped like a scorpion, she thinks. 

“May I disturb her ladyship from what I’m sure is a riveting conversation? I believe a dance is in order after so much time spent in a dismal laboratory.” He asks, extending a gloved hand to her.

“Of course.” She entreats, placing her hand in his, and rising from her chair. “Excuse me, sers.” She says, bowing her head to the table of affluent men. In all honesty, she is rather relieved as she is lead away from the tables and towards the gorgeous white marble dance floor; she wouldn’t call herself overly familiar with Quintus, but there is a likeability to the younger mage that she finds endearing to a point. He seems to understand that she has little desire to discuss politics and nationalism, and instead finds more inclusive (and interesting) topics to discuss whenever they are together. 

“Feynriel tells me that you were feeling unwell earlier.” He says, leading her into position for a waltz. El’una hopes that he isn’t planning on talking for the entire dance; it has been a very long time since she last set foot on a dance floor, and back then she had a hard enough time coordinating her feet along with the intrigue and subtlety of Orlesian politics. This time she’s also charged with maintaining a complex glamour - undivided attention on the task at hand would be ideal.

“A passing trifle.” She notes. “These things do happen.” 

“Indeed.” Quintus agrees, moving with her around the floor, dictating her movements with confidence. A pair of dancers are only as good as each other, El’una understands: It is the role of the leader to control the dance; the timing, the pace, the movement rendered to his partner. It is his role to create the experience, and ensure that his partner is kept safe as well - for the leader must be ever-vigilant of wayward couples and potential collisions. The follower is charged with setting aside all fear, doubt, and uncertainty, and must be malleable to their partner’s lead: A follower who resists, or attempts to assume where the leader is going is bound to scuttle the dance: The job of the follower is to trust the leader; not in words, but in body and mind, as well - A difficult thing to do with a near-stranger.

Dancing with Solas had been easy: She had such trust in him already, it was not difficult to let his - at the time rather remarkably - studious frame move her about with the same sort of effortless ease that Quintus moves her with now. 

Of course ancient elvhen gods knew how to dance. 

She shakes the thought from her mind and instead focuses on her current dancing partner and the setting they share. This is all very strange for her, but she supposes she can at least take solace in the fact that her illness appears to be behaving tonight, and the wine has been delicious, and the food rich and filling, and even if the company leaves something to be desired… well, she has Dorian and Feynriel, and even to some extent, Quintus. 

She is swept around in a well-lead turn by her partner, and her dress rustles and whispers around her feet. She can see Feynriel standing off to the side of the floor as the turn is completed and her illusory hand finds its home on Quintus’ bicep again. He is smiling wryly at them, his hands folded neatly at his front; she is certain that she’ll hear no end of questions from him about how and when she learned to dance: Formal dancing is certainly not an elvhen interest. 

‘Try telling that to The Dread Wolf.’ She’ll probably say. 

A huff of private laughter falls from her lips, and over her shoulder she catches the sight of a slave dressed in the livery of House Pavus. Ah. So he hadn’t forgone his slaves on her account. Silly to expect him to, she supposes; Dorian does have appearances to keep as a member of an absurdly corrupt political system. 

On their next pass around the floor, she notices that there is another of Dorian’s slaves on the edge of the floor. The male elf stands awkwardly close to Feynriel, El’una thinks, considering the large selection of open space around the floor. She frowns, trying to come to some sort of conclusion regarding this and trips over Quintus’ left foot.

“I’m so sorry!” She breathes, correcting herself and resuming her rhythm and hold on her partner. She cranes her head around, trying to glance Feynriel and the slave again. Something in her gut tells her that something is amiss, if only for the fact that she must assume empty-handed elven slaves do not usually linger on the outskirts of the dance floor at swanky Tevinter parties. 

She glances in the other direction towards Dorian’s head table, and sure enough there is a slave - female and elven, dressed in the colours of Dorian’s house - standing beside his chair. She holds a flagon of wine, but her sudden appearance still raises flags in El’una’s mind, and she is horridly reminded of Ben-Hassrath and spies infiltrating Skyhold for something as petty as a two-man hit on Bull. 

Why are they here now? What would be the point of having them show up so late in the party? Dinner has been served, finished, and carted away. Everyone is already past half drunk, so any rational slave would want to be sinking back as far as they can into the background. Why stand around now? She can practically hear Bull asking the questions in her mind. 

Why would Dorian still bother keeping elven spies? She finds herself retorting to Bull’s queries. 

Shit. 

There is a rapid but weighty decision made, and as they turn the corner and make their way down the long end of the dance floor, El’una is already plying the veil aside and gathering magic around her. As they near Feynriel, El’una can see the slave moving slowly - subtly - at his side. At this, she tears from Quintus’ grasp and steps towards the pair less than five yards away. 

“No!” She cries, flinging her hand out and casting a firm buffet of air in the direction of the Dreamer and the spy. 

Both are knocked from their feet, sent skidding into tables and chairs as goblets and glasses clatter and smash around them. El’una is quick to notice the small dagger that skids across the smooth floor; it lands a few tables away from the slave. 

There is a commotion near Dorian’s table, but she doesn’t turn her attention there just yet; her friend is beset by a brace of formidable magisters that he may fall back on if he can’t sort himself out. Keeping Feynriel out of harm’s way is pivotal right now: He has no one. 

The band has ceased, and she marches forward, grabbing an ownerless staff, slung off the back of a chair. A barrier is cast around Feynriel with naught but a wave, and she advances on the elf, who is just now rising to his feet. 

Her conviction to retaining her facade must remain strong; her goal is to apprehend the assassin, but in the event that he escapes, she would not have his commander know that she is anything more than a human mage. 

Luckily the work is done for her when tanned fingers reach around the face of the elf from behind and stifle his mouth as a dart is pricked into its neck and he goes slack within a moment. Blonde hair and mischievous eyes appear over the slack weight of the elf and without bothering to stop and think or ask how Zevran got in here to begin with, El’una nods, and her spy begins to drag the unconscious form of the infiltrator through the suddenly chaotic room. 

Her attention is turned to Quintus now, who is standing a few paces away and looking utterly bewildered by this momentous turn of events, but not entirely unprepared to fight. His eyes catch on Feynriel caught in the opalescent circumference of the shimmering barrier, and El’una calls to him.

“To Dorian!” She orders, jerking her head towards the head table. 

He bobs his head once and squares off in the same direction as she, following her lead now as she takes off, holding her skirts in her right hand with her staff tucked under the same arm as she darts between tables and chaos; it would seem that the other Pavus slaves are not charged with slaughtering people; instead, they seem to be fixed on causing panic - tilting chairs and tables, running wildly around, and antagonising anyone who is not clad in their colours. This, obviously is not impacting the mage-dominated party well and results in a number of spells and staves to be flung about, causing further disorder.

She ducks low, narrowly missing an incandescent arc of acid that hurtles through the air, and shoves past a woman who is in the process of summoning a wall of fire between herself and El’una’s intended course. Dorian’s table is a splendiferous mess of fire, spilled wine, and bright barriers over scrumming bodies. Through everything, she is able to suss out Dorian, sitting in a half-toppled chair that is being held up by the ample backside of Magister Donus, who is grappling with a slave that is trying to lodge a blade in his side. Dorian is fighting a similar battle, fighting off the swings of the wine-bearer who is valiantly trying to bludgeon him with the flagon grasped in her hand. 

El’una lets her staff slip into her hand and levels a convincingly stave driven arc of lightning towards the table. The shock does enough to distract the mass of forms from their efforts for long enough that the elven slaves also look her way. The opportunity is taken, and her hands are raised above her as she prepares to use the Fade to put them all in a deep sleep. 

There is a scream, and El’una’s eyes snap open to see the elf trying to kill Dorian: Her fingers slacken their grip on the flagon to come up and grasp at the forearm that has tightened around her chest. El’una catches sight of a knife and a familiar hat and she darts forward.

“No, don’t - !”

Blood arcs through the air, falling hot and thick on her skin, and she opens her eyes to see the elf fall prone on the table. 

The hat and the knife are gone.

People are screaming now. 

So much for a party without at least one murder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for bearing with me! EP is most definitely a WIP, and was truly started without a firm grasp and understanding of specific characterization in some cases. I have a rhythm going where I updated EP, update Spes Arcana (the first part of the series, which I highly recommend checking out if you haven't already; there is far more Solas fluff and general good feeling there,) and then I will edit an older chapter of EP until things sort of... fall into the lines I intend them to. 
> 
> That being said, if you haven't already; please check out my edited earlier chapters of this fic. I found the characterization and plot of the earlier ones didn't fit quite as well with the later ones. I've amended them and I'm really proud of what they became! (And will continue to become!)


	18. Chapter 18

There has been little call for her to be The Inquisitor for some time now. She has grown rather accustomed to a life led in subversive self imposed exile. The lack of meetings, and paperwork is an added benefit, but beyond that she has not had to be what she became in those days for what feels like years.

A strong leader.

The scrum following Cole’s execution of the assassin is brief, but bloody: There is a fantastic volley of spells and blades and though she is unable to count the casualties offhand, El’una knows that they exist on both sides.

In the immediate aftermath, those closest to her are pulled aside, checked over, duties are rendered, and a convenient excuse is found to accompany Dorian to his study, away from the blood-slicked floor and still forms of mages and slaves alike.

“I would very much like to know why a former member of the Inquisition’s inner circle - a person privy to Solas’ methods - would think it appropriate to maintain a household of elven slaves! How did this happen?” The words tumble from her lips the moment the door of the study closes behind her, and she is rapidly closing the gap between herself and Dorian, who has without hesitation headed directly for the bar. “Dorian!” His name is barked with the sharpness of someone who might have at one time or another been accustomed to getting immediate answers. She comes to a halt, her palms resting flat on the surface of his handsome wooden writing desk, and her eyes burn into her friend as he pours himself a generous glass of brandy.

Her breathing is heavy, and Dorian’s casual, nonchalant movements bring her further ire: He dawdles and fusses over his drink, making no indication that he means to answer her question at this precise moment. He acts as though a number of elves and humans had not been slaughtered under his own roof moments earlier. It is though - it is too much… it is - .

Fists are brought down on the surface of the desk with enough force that a candelabra clatters to the floor and an inkwell is tossed onto its side so that it seeps blackness onto what El’una is sure are very important documents. Her left fist also makes a point of vanishing completely, though an irritated wiggle is enough to bring the illusory limb back into being.

“There are four dead elven slaves, and two dead magisters laying in your dining room!” She thunders as though a reminder may break him from his stupor. She gestures towards the door of the study angrily. “We have one captor; a spy who intended to murder Feynriel, yet there are three elven slaves on your staff that are unaccounted for!” She rakes her hand furiously through her unkempt hair and clenches her fingers till they crack.  An enraged step is taken towards the magister and she decides she only imagined his dark skin paling slightly at the advance. “In what world did you fashion the logic that keeping elven slaves was a good idea, Dorian?!”

The brandy is tossed back and drained in one go, only to be refilled seconds later. The newly filled glass is picked up and gestured about grandly as Dorian finally opens his mouth. “As if a mass exodus of elves from the Pavus Estate wouldn’t get people talking!” He snarls angrily. “There are already rumours that I sympathize with the Qun because of a certain Tal’Vashoth mercenary that can’t seem to stay away.” The words carry an angry edge, but El’una knows that Dorian regrets them when his eyes drop to the side for a moment. “You think setting the elves free hadn’t crossed my mind? You must realize, El’una; he has what remains of the Inquisition trapped - particularly me. He knows just as well as you and I that in a time like this, someone like me setting free a dozen slaves is going to do little more than draw political attention from the rest of the Magisterium!” The brandy is drained again, and another is poured. “What would you have of me? The majority of my countrymen already distrust me. Dismissing the slaves would have played right into Solas’ hands: I can’t be of much help to you if I’m too busy fighting off extortion, blackmail and attempts on my life by my own people, can I?”

El’una feels her teeth grinding; Dorian is right. It takes all she has in her not to blast the wooden desk to splinters at the understanding of Dorian’s plight: She has indeed underestimated Solas and his skill at manipulation. Immediately she berates herself for not taking his prior experience in the area into consideration.

“He knows I would come here first.” She thinks aloud. “He knows that if I learned that he is in the Imperium, I would come to you for help.” She sighs and sets the inkwell upright, wiping the black ink that coats her fingers on the now bloodstained fabric of her dress. “So he made it so you had no choice but to allow infiltration.”

“I’m afraid it appears that’s the case.” Dorian says, his own voice now lowering to match El’una’s.

She lets out a hissed stream of vulgarity - both common and elvhen - that would make Blackwall go red. “Of course he was able to suss out Feynriel from the dreams… I believe he caught only a glimpse of him, but that would have been all he needed.”

“The dreams?”

El’una looks up at Dorian darkly, but back down right away. “You needn’t concern yourself with it right now.” She states. “What matters is that he knows who Feynriel is, that he is connected to you, and that he is helping me.”

“He doesn’t know _you’re_ here though.” Dorian points out.

“I do not like to relish the thought of what might happen to you and your house if he did.” El’una admits quietly. Their parting in the Crossroads had been truce-like enough; he might have killed her then and there regardless of her choices, but he didn’t. She isn’t foolish enough to think that mercy will continue to be extended to her. She pushes away from the desk and paces the study as she considers their next move: Being upset with Dorian might feel good right now, if only because he’s a target where she has none, but it will do no good in the long run. “You brought me here to get his agents out of Tevinter.” She says finally. “I have dallied in regard to that task for too long. Time is running short, and the time to act approaches.” She approaches the bar and gives a questioning glance to Dorian. “May I?”

“Of course.” He entreats, and El’una measures and pours herself a brandy.

“He knows of Feynriel’s connection to me.” El’una announces. “As you say, he may be unaware of my physical presence within Tevinter borders, but he won’t need that if he can harm or kill the Dreamer that aids me. Feynriel’s safety is of primary importance going forward - I need him, and he never asked to be mixed up in this to begin with. I will not see him come to harm for my own lack of care.”

“We’ll have him moved to Maevaris’ apartments, which are off the estate grounds.” Dorian offers. “She keeps a small staff free of slaves, and I believe her own skill as a mage will more than adequately suffice to protect our friend.”

El’una swallows a good deal of brandy and nods. “Good.” She says, feeling reminded at the moment of nothing short of an Inquisition meeting. “Where is he being kept now?”

“You’ll find him and Quintus in your chambers, awaiting instruction.”

“Hope they don’t mind the mess.” El’una says, blinking and taking another drink.

Dorian’s mouth tilts. “I’m sure they have other things on their mind at the moment.” He joins her at the bar and refills his glass yet again before turning to her. “Speaking of which; Quintus. Do you trust him?”

El’una takes the time to consider her answer regarding this; indeed, she can say that she barely knows Quintus, having known him for the longest time in the bowels of the estate in a rank alchemy lab where the majority of discussion was professional in nature. Yet… like Dorian, and Felix, there is something unique about the man: A perceived sense that he has more in mind for his life that scrambling up the social pyramid at the cost of those below him.

“I suppose I do, yes.” She says. “There is a trustworthy quality about him that I can’t ignore.”

“Yes, well. I’m sure Solas had trustworthy qualities too.” Dorian points out. “But if you feel that way, I wholly support it; I’ve known Quintus for years. He comes from a well-regarded family and has a head on his shoulders that isn’t quite overinflated yet. Have you considered letting him in on your little secret, given that you’ve told his apprentice everything?”

El’una shakes her head. “I’ll consider it.” She says, setting the glass down on the bar gently. “It isn’t a top priority right now, but you’re right; it may be an option to have him join the cause.” She sighs again and goes silent for a time, only now becoming fully aware of exactly how much red has seeped into the fine silver thread of her gown. She’s been going non-stop since waking… some time to just sit and think right now would be much appreciated.

“Speaking of people joining causes,” Dorian breaks her from her reflection. “I happened to notice your own pair of unique infiltrations into my party tonight. One of which was responsible for the destruction of a very handsome and expensive robe.” He holds his arm out and El’una can make out the dark brown spot of drying blood that has spread over the handsome blue velvet of Dorian’s outfit. He arches an eyebrow and waits expectantly for an answer.

“Cole? I had no idea he would - I didn’t tell him to kill her. He just… showed up outside the dining hall just before I came in and - .”

There is the sound of crystal shattering as El’una’s glass leaps from her fingertips at the sudden appearance of the spirit-person on the desk nearby.

Funny, she thinks the last time she saw the hat he wears, it was sitting on a shelf in her chambers back at Skyhold.

“Where has the music gone?” He mutters, and El’una notices that despite her and Dorian’s blood-soaked visages, there isn’t a speck of red on Cole. “Betrayal before betraying should be -  is she safe? There’s too much fire to see.”

She holds her hand out over the smashed glass and the shards rise into the air, re-assembling seamlessly before settling into her waiting fingers. As if nothing had happened to it, she pours more brandy into the empty vessel.

“Why did you kill the spy?” She asks, wishing for her deck of cards so that she may busy her fingers.

“Because it helped everyone.” He whispers, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. “Keeping means questions, and if I live I will talk - It was easier to become someone who can’t be kept.”

“She wanted to die?” Dorian pipes up and Cole turns his head towards him. “This is how Fen’Harel treats his people, hm? Find the ones willing to die for him and ships them off to give them the release they seek?” He makes a ‘ _tcha!_ ’ sound, shakes his head, and replenishes his brandy once more.

“Easy, open, honest - he is thick pages and dust in summer sunbeams: His fire is not what makes him a dragon.” Cole glances at El’una once more. “I can’t lose Dorian. I want trees instead of tributes. Fire and glass. Cracks keep cracking.”

At the word ‘ _crack_ ’ El’una feels herself shudder involuntarily: She had forgotten about cracks.

“His people are no different than the Inquisition’s.” She mentions to Dorian quietly. “Countless were willing to die for it. Thousands did.” And with those words she immediately reconsiders her decision to involve Quintus. “Thank you, Cole.” She says to the boy on the desk, offering him a smile, wondering if the shimmering silver-green illumination around him had always existed, or if it was because of her increased connection to the Fade. She lets the curiousity go for now and instead says, “Perhaps it’s best for you to stay out of sight for now. I’ll call for you when I’ve finished what I must.”

“Tired, frenzied, faint - ‘don’t let me ruin me.’” Is all the spirit leaves them with before vanishing from sight.

“Where are you going?” Dorian asks when El’una instantly begins heading for the door.

She looks at him as though it should be obvious. “The dungeons?” She attempts. “Wouldn’t that be where our prisoner is being kept?”

Dorian wrinkles his nose in disgust. “Dungeons? What sort of place do you think this is? This is an estate, not a bloody stronghold.”

She decides it’s a fair point, and says, “The cellars then. Zevran would have taken him to the most secure part of the estate, and the cellars have no windows and have only one path in or out.”

“Where did you collect this _Zevran_ , anyway?” Dorian inquires, swallowing the remainder of his brandy and setting off after El’una. “This sounds like the sort of cloak and dagger thing that Leliana would have her hands in.”

El’una smiles weakly, her hand finding the door handle. “Yes, quite literally actually. As for Zevran, I picked him up at a tavern.” She sighs. “I have questions for him too: I didn’t tell him to be here tonight. I wonder what brought him up from the city.”

“I _do_ throw the best parties.” Dorian says snidely, following her through the door and out into the hallway. “Regardless of why he came, you ought to count yourself lucky. His timing was impeccable.”

“It was.” El’una agrees solemnly, not wanting to give too much thought to what might have happened if the former Crow had not somehow managed to infiltrate an exclusive event and evaded the notice of dozens of magisters as well as herself.

“What of the agent?”

“A bit of light questioning won’t go amiss for a politically powerful Marcher.” El’una explains. “His accomplice did, after all, attempt to murder my cousin.” She winks at Dorian.

“Light questioning?” Dorian repeats. “You mean to let him go after this?”

“Don’t be silly, Dorian; you’re backed into a corner, remember? I would let him go, personally: I’d send him straight back to Solas after giving him a bath, a meal, and a good night’s sleep, with a crate of the worst tea I can find in tow.” She laughs darkly. “But you? How would the rest of the magisterium react to you setting free a would-be assassin? A slave that tried to murder one of their own? Might as well paint a target on your back, if you’re so eager to get bumped off.”

Dorian is silent for a moment. His moustache twitches in annoyance and he finally says, “I fucking hate him.”

“Yes, well.” El’una says, “He’s only had a few thousand years to practice fucking around with people - he’s put it to good use, I’ll give him that. He knows he’s made it personal now; that you will have to have the slave killed, but it will bring you nothing but torment.” Her stained skirts are hitched up and she begins descending the stairs into the underbelly of the estate. “Who needs armies and trebuchets when one can render figures of power toothless with only a single pawn?” She shakes her head, half impressed, half disgusted at the reality Solas has forced Dorian to face. “Your actions will set the stage for Tevinter’s involvement in all of this, but before the actors are cast, I will see what I can get from our prisoner.”

“You mean to poke about in his head, yes?” Dorian surmises. “I know why you spend so much time with Feynriel these days. It’s why you were late tonight, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” El’una answers quietly, rounding the corner of a familiar hallway and feeling relieved when she sees Zevran towards the end, standing guard at a door. Upon catching sight of him, she halts and grabs Dorian’s arm. “I am at war with dreams,” She says in a voice low enough so that only Dorian can hear. “More troubling than this, is that something else appears to be stalking me - and it’s not a wolf. Please look out for me, Dorian.” With a final, imploring stare, she parts from her old friend and begins her walk down to the end of the hallway where Zevran stands guard.

“My lady.” He says, looking up from small hand knife he had been polishing. The knife is tucked away somewhere that El’una is unable to precisely pinpoint, and the rag he had used is hung temporarily from his belt. He shoots her a wicked grin. “Quite the parties these people have in this city. For once I am glad that my curiosity got the best of me.”

“He’s still unconscious?” El’una asks, not wanting to progress the conversation any further if the spy was likely to have his ear pressed to the door.

Zevran nods slowly. “He will not wake until the antidote to the poison is administered, or until sunrise. I understand that time is often of the essence when interrogating a spy, so I selected a sedative that will keep time on your side, if you require.” His fingers find the flap of a pouch on his belt, and a glass vial similar to the ones she uses to store Choke is withdrawn. The item is passed to her, and she surveys its contents; presumably the antidote Zevran had mentioned, the liquid within the vial is a pleasing shade of orange. The fluid is thick enough that air bubbles appear to be trapped within it, and the vial feels warm to her touch, despite having been stored in a pouch and away from direct contact with Zevran’s body.

“Deathroot in an antidote.” She observes, turning the vial over in her fingers. “Uncommon.” She looks up at Zevran. “Potentially fatal if it hasn’t been decocted correctly.”

His teeth glint in the low light. “Luckily I’ve had quite a long time to perfect my skills as far as creating that particular antidote. You have nothing to fear; your prisoner will live.”

She nods and clenches her fingers around the vial, now returning to the question that has been pressing her the hardest. “Why _did_ you come, Zevran? It’s not as though I’m ungrateful for your timing, but the fact that you managed to sneak onto the property at all without getting caught is impressive: How did you come to linger around a party in a room full of racist magisters without detection?”

“To answer your first question; a big party being hosted at the estate of a controversial magister makes for plenty of talk around the city; I doubt there’s a person in Minrathous that hadn’t at least heard of the festivities. Naturally, my interest was piqued; much the same as Fen’Harel’s spies, I suspect. I decided it would be prudent to keep an eye on things. This country is strange; nobody seems capable of keeping secrets, nor tries particularly hard to do so. In Orlais it’s the opposite; you can guarantee that nearly every word that falls from a person’s mouth is either an outright lie, or a veiled half-truth. I had no reason to assume that Fen’Harel would surely send his people to the party, but I had no reason to assume he wouldn’t, either.” The assassin crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the wall before continuing. “As to getting into the party itself? It was simple; the political atmosphere of this country is rife with over-privileged fat-men who think too highly of their sparking hands and tiny cocks: I am neither a mage or a slave - to them, someone like me does not exist, for I am of no worth or use to them: I am nothing. I can neither pour their wine, nor participate in their magic. I do not have the look of a concubine, so I am of no use in that area either. I have nothing to offer their ego, so it is remarkably easy to slip past their notice altogether.”

“Huh.” El’una admits, impressed by this reasoning: It had certainly worked in Zevran’s favour. It also served to show exactly how blind and corrupt the politics of Tevinter were: To be completely blind to certain people seems like an embarrassing lot in life, El’una decides. She is reminded of Solas telling her that ancient Arlathan was not at all unlike modern Tevinter, and she wonders if the ancient elves also possessed such ego that they were rendered blind to obvious things. She supposes that was much the case; if you are unwilling to see the hand that bears the knife, the only way you will perceive it is when it has already been lodged in your back - Zevran is not the only elf she can think of who has taken advantage of this knowledge, and with that, her mind is returned to the task at hand. “I’ll interrogate the spy now.” She announces. “I intend to be brief, but if you hear any indication that something has gone amiss, please don’t hesitate to come inside.”

“Of course, my lady. Are you familiar with the fine art of interrogation? I have some tricks that are guaranteed to loosen even the tightest of lips.”

El’una shakes her head and places her hand on the door handle. “Thank you Zevran, but I can manage. I’d not see this elf suffer more than necessary.” She means the words she says; Solas may have forced Dorian’s hand in regard to this elf’s fate, but just because he is doomed, she is not going to add additional and untoward suffering to his plight.

“Very well. Do try to avoid going for the throat, this time… it’s hard to talk when your windpipe is being crushed.” He smirks at her, and the expression is returned as the joke is understood before she turns the handle and enters the room she has frequented over the past weeks, closing the door behind her with a gentle click.

A motion is all it takes to reignite the candles set around the room and shed adequate light on her surroundings. Her book and knife have been moved, and it occurs to her that the knife Zevran had been polishing was in fact her own; he had seen fit to remove any hazardous items from the place - good.

The prisoner is slumped against the far wall, his legs splayed straight in front of him, his hands unbound in his lap, and his head hanging limply in front of him as he slumbers. Carefully, El’una begins closing the distance between them, being more mindful than ever of her illusion: What she is doing is incredibly risky; if she awakens this agent and Solas takes advantage of the window the spy’s mind provides, saying the wrong thing could entirely blow her cover.

No, she must be mindful of who she is pretending to be: Lady Trevelyan would know nothing of the Inquisition, and of Fen’Harel. She would however have considerable motivation to learn why the spy was present in the first place, and what was to be gained by murdering Dorian and a random apprentice.

If nothing else, El’una hopes that if Solas does have a connection to this agent’s mind, he realizes that while she may not be present in the flesh, those closest to her are by no means alone.

Carefully she kneels beside him, mindful of the candles all around and the trailing fabric of her dress. She tilts the elf’s head back so she can get a proper look at him while her fingers find the pulsepoint on the side of his neck. A steady rhythm lingers there, and satisfied, she sits back on her feet and gazes in silence at the unconscious elf for a time.

He’s younger than her by at least a decade, and she can see no obvious markings on him that give him away as a slave. His face is bare, but that tells her next to nothing; if he is Dalish in origin, there’s no reason why Solas wouldn’t talk the lad into shedding his vallaslin too. The cut of his hair however, tells her that he is most likely of the city: It’s a common cut and style among city elves in Orlais. A small bracelet of charms on his wrist confirms this; one of the ornaments is a flattened silver coin bearing the likeness of Empress Celene. Idly she wonders if this elf had been one of Briala’s agents at one time, and she sets about tugging the cork out of the vial with her teeth.

She tilts the elf’s head further back until his chin is pointed at the ceiling. Gently prying his mouth open with one hand, she carefully inserts her fingers into the sides of his mouth, lifting his tongue enough so that she can pour the viscous antidote underneath it; unconscious people don’t swallow very well, and forcing the fluid down his throat could lead to his death. In cases like this, it’s best to set the liquid under the tongue and wait for the body to absorb it naturally. It’s a slower process, but it’s favourable to interrogating a corpse.

That being the case now, she tilts his head forward so it’s flush with the wall and rises to her feet, crossing the room and retrieving her book from the table Zevran had placed it on.

She spends the next half hour absently leafing through the tome, wishing that she was better at reading. Her time with the Inquisition had definitely increased her skill with written words, but from time to time she still found herself lost in the meaning and interpretations of various words; extremely old and vague Tevinter theory was not the easiest material she’s come across, but the book held secrets that she desperately needed to understand, so the slow-going read was worth it.

She’s partway through a chapter about the correlation between diminished connection to the Fade and the use of blood magic when stirring across the room causes her to look up. The captive elf is moving; his head lifting on fatigued muscles as a hand comes up to rub tired eyes. He groans slightly and El’una rises to her feet.

“Greetings.” She says, waiting for the elf to look her way and put her into focus before she sets the book back on the table and clasps her hands at her front. Comprehending her blood soaked silhouette,  the elf sits forward and snarls at her.

“Where are the rest? You’ve killed them, haven’t you?!” He accuses in elvhen.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand elven.” She says evenly, making her way to the pitcher of water that is set by the door. She pours a cup of it and turns back to the elf, holding it out to him. “I do understand that potion tastes terrible, however: You must be thirsty.” She does not flinch when the cup is swatted from her hand by angry fingers; Zevran didn’t see fit to restrain the elf - he must be confident that the lad is no threat.

Another stream of profanity and various oaths all in elvhen stream from the mouth of the agent, and it’s all El’una can do to stare blankly at the man who is so valiantly seeking to insult a woman in a language she is not fluent in.

“You’re Orlesian, are you not?” She mentions, retrieving the cup from where it has fallen and returning to the jug to refill it. “I am fluent in that language, if you would prefer not to converse in the trade tongue.” She returns to his side and holds the cup out to him again. “I assure you it is not poisoned.” She says _en orlesian_ as the elf glares daggers at her, breathing heavily with remnants of the sticky orange potion clinging to the corners of his mouth. After what seems to be a great internal struggle, he finally seems to make up his mind and snatches the cup from her, bringing it to his lips and drinking greedily. “Better?” She asks after the cup has been drained. He does not answer her, but thrusts the cup back towards her; he wants more.

El’una refills the cup for the third time and says, “I would know why you attacked a magister’s apprentice.” The cup is returned to the agent and quickly drained again. This time he sets it next to him on the floor. He makes no move to stand or attack, and El’una is glad of this: He seems to understand that he has been left unbound for a reason; shackles would be the least of his problems if he saw fit to attack the woman before him.

“I did not come here to offer insight to strangers.” The elf says finally. “You may as well kill me as you did the others; I will not talk.”

Unsurprising, really. Spies aren’t much good if the first thing they do upon capture is spill all of their information. El’una knows she’ll have to get creative with her questioning: Telling the elf that he’s doomed regardless isn’t going to loosen his tongue, but giving him hope that he might go free may only make him more confident in his silence.

Hope, on the other hand… people will die happily for a bit of that.

“I suppose you may be wondering why some random woman is asking you such things.” She begins, sitting on the floor before the elf, folding her skirts under her legs. “I’m sure you’ve already gleaned that I am neither Tevinter, nor a Magister, so you must have questions of your own: Why should I be at all invested in who decides to have someone assassinated at a party? Why isn’t the magister who runs the household the one questioning you?” She smiles at him, although it is a rather mean expression. “Because hospitality is _everything_ , here in the Imperium: It was I who directly thwarted your attempt on the life of the apprentice in the dining hall, and my gracious host thought it appropriate that I be the first to speak with you. The Grand Tevinter Imperium: Come for the magic, stay for the assassination attempts and hands on interrogations!” She gestures through the air grandly with a hand before smiling sharply at the elf again, finally feeling comfortable with her facade; yes, the face in the mirror may be terrible and hard, but the ruthless cunning of Lady Trevelyan which she saw in polished glass earlier is now the perfect tool for making this agent talk: El’una Lavellan does not do interrogations; she does not bring fear or pain or threaten harm upon others who have already suffered.

Evelyn Trevelyan _does_.

“You may yet see the light of day, friend.” She continues, reaching forward and tilting his chin with her fingertips so that his eyes have nowhere to look but her own. She stares intently at them, looking for any indication that the eyes staring back at her belong to anyone other than himself. “If you give me what I seek, my liberal Marcher sensibilities may prove useful in convincing the mage-folk of these parts not to have you magically flayed, quartered, and displayed on spikes around the city walls, because I guarantee that the next person who walks through that door has precisely that exercise in mind for you: Magisters do not appreciate slaves turning on their masters.”

“I am no one’s slave!” The elf retorts harshly, jerking his chin away from El’una’s touch. How appropriate, she thinks.

“No?” She says instead, forcing his gaze back to her own without a touch this time. “Then what business do you have posing as one, coming into my cousin’s house and attempting to murder him? Hmmm? If you are not a slave, as you claim, logic leaves only a personal vendetta on the table. Magister Pavus is not popular among the people, but you are neither well-fed enough nor equipped to meet the standards of a hired assassin or Antivan Crow. I happened to notice all of your accomplices were also elven, which dissuades me for thinking this was a trained hit bought by another Magister - any respectable Magister wouldn’t trust an elf to do a man’s job. He also wouldn’t bother messing up a tidy hit by trying to double up with a nameless and politically powerless pupil; a pupil who I am told is a proficient Dreamer.” She curls her lip slightly with her last words. “So… who sent you?” She asks quietly, holding her icy look on her captive.

The elf laughs now; a sarcastic chuckle that rings around the room. “You’re going to kill me, and it is going to cost you and your Tevinter friends dearly.” He warns. “I know not whose blood you’re covered in, but if I am right in my suspicion that it is one of my own, the damage is already done, and retribution will be swift.”

El’una lets out a laugh of her own that catches the elf off guard. He stares at her, but does not react quickly enough when the smile slides off her face and her hand darts out from seemingly nowhere, grabbing him by his hair and tilting his head back. “Do I strike you as someone who gives a fuck?” She hisses, pushing her face up next to his own and pressing his head against the hard stone wall. “There are rumours around the Marches, you know… words spoken into cups and in quiet hallways, where it is said that there has been a rapid and telling of exodus of elves from all places on the continent.” The elf lets out a gasp of pain when El’una knots her fingers tighter in his hair, and she feels her heart both harden and break. “I wonder _why_.” She whispers. “I wonder if the answer is literally in the palm of my hand.”

“I already told you; you’ll get nothing from me.” He retorts defiantly.

“Three of your men managed to escape in the chaos; do you think they’ll be as stout-hearted as you when they are apprehended?” She asks.

“They’re safe by now.” He counters.

“How could you know? You’ve been unconscious in a windowless room with no gauge for time.”

“The blood on your dress… it’s nearly dry.” The elf swallows in El’una’s hold and his eyes wander over her form. “They are far enough away by now; if you haven’t caught them yet, you won’t.” He closes his eyes and a smile spreads across his face.

El’una feels her eyes narrow as something pricks at her fingers that are still wound in the agent’s hair. She loosens her grip and feels for the object that feels unlike hair, her fingers coming away gripping a very small twig that is less than two inches long. She says nothing and conceals the small bit of wood in her hand as she leans away from the elf. A familiar burning rises in her chest and she stifles a cough with the back of her hand.

“That doesn’t sound good.” The elf mentions as she rises to her feet and turns away.

“Can’t be worse than being in your position.” She quips, arranging her skirts around her before stooping and grabbing the water cup. She refills it once more and returns it to the elf without a look before turning to the door.

“Your hands are cold.” She hears him call after her as she reaches for the door handle.

She pauses and turns to face him. The elf stares intently at her, his face blank and unreadable. “I am told that’s not uncommon in people.” She says coolly, pulling the door open and stepping back into the hallway.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** WARNING: CONTAINS BLOOD MAGIC AND SELF HARM. IF THIS ISN'T YOUR BAG, SKIP ONTO THE NEXT CHAPTER***

The altar has been set: yarrow, deathroot, powdered dragon bone and deep mushrooms.

The bells toll late, marking it to be just past two in the night, and El’una is alone in her basement store-room surrounded by her customary perimeter of candles and juniper. The layout of the room differs tonight however, most noticeably by large, still drying sigil of blood that is drawn across the floor almost as wide as the room itself.

That and the disembodied and necrotized arm sitting on a black cloth in its center.

El’una turns from the altar, smearing the edge of a dagger with an elfroot tincture as she crosses the room and kneels in the center of the circle.

She wastes no time hesitating or deliberating: She’s robbed a grave tonight and fresh blood still flows generously from the deep wound she has drawn in her side in order to complete her circle - there’s no use pausing to mull over the consequences now. Instead she closes her eyes, centering herself as the hub of this circle. Her mouth opens and she speaks the ancient words that she learned from the Fade; words that are forgotten, forbidden and taste of grave dust as they slip over her tongue in the form of a rasping, guttural hiss that falls unpleasantly on the ears.

Her intent made clear, she reaches past the arm and steals a pinch of dragon bone from the small saucer it sits in, casting it into the flame of the small oil burner that rests in the palm of the rotting hand at her knees.

May the flesh be strong.

Unsurprisingly, the bone does not react to the flame, being that it belongs to a dragon.

She moves to the deathroot, crushing the dried roots into chunks between the palm of her hand before taking a long draught from the bottle of mule piss she acquired earlier in the day and swishing the brackish and bitter fluid around her mouth before spitting it into her hand. The oil burner gutters and she nearly vomits at the aftertaste, but she casts the stinking wad into the flame as well.

The deathroot hisses and smokes, emitting a putrid orange vapour that makes her eyes water.

May the flesh be long-lasting.

El’una reaches for the mortar and pestle through the haze, her fingers seeking the yarrow and deep mushroom, but before she can grasp them she is overwhelmed by a fit of coughing; the reaction between the dragon bone and deathroot is choking her out with the potency the concoction has created.

Her palm beats the floor as her back curls and she hacks desperately into the miasma, only obtaining relief after she feels a generous quantity of blood cascade over her chin and down the front of her neck. Groaning, she holds the gash at her side closed, lest her efforts split her skin and spill her organs. Sucking a good deal of blood back into her mouth and down her throat she says to no one in particular, “I haven’t the time for this,” and her fingers find purchase on the items she requires: The yarrow and mushrooms are thrown unceremoniously into the bowl and mixed with her saliva before being savagely ground into a chunky paste.

Satisfied, she scrapes the mass of slightly glowing goop onto the burner. She catches her side as she does this; the blade was sharp, but pain is intruding violently on the wound she rendered.

May the flesh be pure.

Finished for the moment, she sits back on her knees and watches as the burner sparks and shoots flame of varying colour into the air, consuming the materials placed on it, blackening them and mixing their makeup together.

Knowing what she must do next, she takes a deep breath and collects the dagger from the floor next to her, scooting up to the burner, wincing at the sensation of hot flame on the back of her knee as she keeps her leg raised, rested on the scarred stump of her left arm.

She reflects for a moment on her current setting. A year ago, freshly de-limbed, she would not have imagined that she would be sitting where she sits today. Three years ago, she would have thought the idea impossible. Five years ago - deplorable and desperate. Days ago she walked away and did nothing to prevent the death of Solas’ agent, her only comfort being the twig she had stolen from his hair and a rough estimate of where she would find the rest of the elves - the time for sentimentality has passed, and the moment of action is nigh.

The blade rises, and ancient intent is rendered. Oiled steel passes across living flesh and living veins spurt healthy, living blood down onto the oil burner.

A wail is torn from her throat, but it is less from pain but more from the sensation of feeling such a large quantity of blood drain from her body so quickly. Instinct seizes her body and attempts to override reason in favour of self preservation; her fingers spasm open and the blade clatters to the stone floor and her leg tries to curl towards her to stem the flow of blood that spurts gratuitously from the carefully selected artery behind her knee onto the stinking, rotting arm below it.

She holds it fast.

May the flesh know me and serve my will.

Sounds are… wrong. There’s more of them than there should be, but not enough scents or sights to match. Her vision wavers and she is having difficulty staying upright. Despite this, she is very warm. Uncomfortably warm. She knows from experience that blood loss should make her feel cold.

It is mine.

She clenches her jaw and feels more blood bubble through the gaps in her teeth as the room simultaneously darkens and continues to heat; sweat from her forehead is trickling down her face and mingling with the blood on her chin. She looks down and sees a pale pink droplet evaporate as it strikes the scorching floor beneath her.

Mine.

Her head tilts to the ceiling and she roars again. Somewhere in Orlais, the ground shakes.

Mine.

He kept a box on his table in the rotunda - it was full of knives. She never liked them; she told him as much: It was uncharacteristic. The first time she made a face at them and called them morbid, he snorted, smirked and said, “ _They must seem a paradox because I’m kind_.” He left it at that.

Glassy eyes drift to shining red and gleaming steel on what must be the floor. They roll back into her skull and into a dream or something like it; a memory of a day when she stood on a cliff above the Storm Coast, her freshly amputated arm slinged on her chest while her good one cradles a box of knives in the air above the surging black sea. She doesn’t know what to do with this stuff. It’s just _stuff_. She feels muscles loosen their grip on the box, but tighten back around it just as quickly in refusal to let it fall into nothingness.

It’s worth a bit of blood to get my arms free.

The heat becomes all she’s known, and her face cracks into a smile as the fresh herbs and ferns around her crack and wither, and the candles are reduced to pearlescent pools on the floor.

_“They must seem a paradox because I’m kind.”_

_“You can’t keep making symbols out of nothing.”_

_“You don’t need me here to catch you.’_

_SCRAGSDGSGSEEEHHHH!!!_

Torn from the Fade she scrabbles against the floor, flipping onto her belly and looking up to meet the visage of the most sordid manifestation of Despair she has ever seen. It hangs spider-like from the ceiling above her altar, inhaling the trails of smoke that still rise from the blood-drenched limb on the floor as if they were a fine tobacco.

 _SCARAAAAGEHHHHHHEAGHHH!!_ It shrieks, and she hears a dull _‘pop’_ in her head as her ears fail her and begin to bleed. She watches, deafened and shocked as Despair picks up her disembodied arm and sniffs it probingly before flapping it around in the air, grotesquely flailing gore across the floor and ceiling while emitting a horrid amalgamation of sobbing and laughing that twists her stomach.

“ _Stop!_ ” She screams, reaching up from the floor, spent; drained of magic and blood.

Despair, with its shrunken head and skin so empty that it absorbs any light that touches it, turns its head and lets the arm fall limp in its grasp. It hisses frigid, smoke-like breath through its ragged teeth as its mouth curls into a forced and shattered grin. “ _You don’t need thissss_ .” It implores knowledgeably before tossing the limb across the room with a profane ‘ _splat’_ . “I have what you _neeeed_.” It promises, reaching towards her with a branch-like finger and stroking her bloody face.

El’una flinches away from the icy touch and shoves her hand against the wound on her leg; it isn’t bleeding heavily anymore she notices - not a good sign.

“You’d think you’d murdered _their children_ from the way they talk about you.” Despair cackles. “You’re dying, whore. Slattern! Prostitute! Concubine of The Forgotten!!! Even The Great Traitor doesn’t want you!!!” El’una’s skin feels as though it’s being pulled apart when Despair shoves its face up to hers; her cheeks freeze solid and she feels the remaining moisture in her nose and throat crystalize and tighten. “ _Howwww_ do you keep fighting?”

“S-strange that you asked me.” El’una chatters. “‘I don’t… d-don’t feel like much of a fighter lately.” She gasps, twisting away from the grating cold of Despair. “What with the dying and all.” Keeping her hand clenched firmly around the back of her bleeding leg she reaches for the Fade, passes through the veil, and manages to Fade-step across the room, twisting and grasping for her prize: the arm.

Despair’s papery hand manages to find purchase on El’una’s skirts and in so doing, wrenches her hand away from the still bleeding wound on her leg. A finger deftly finds the open flesh of her torso, wrenching a shattered scream from the elf that writhes and claws at the ground beneath it. Despair whimpers first, then openly sobs as El’una fights and struggles against its touch, still attempting to crawl towards the arm that is laying palm down on the floor.

“ _Noooo!!!!_ ” The demon mocks El’una’s cries between bawling and wailing. “Bitch of The Wolf indeed! _You are DYING!_ ” Despair brings a knotted hand up to its face to wipe the tears from its eyes and El’una seizes the opportunity she’s been waiting for: She twists away from the demon again and seizes her rightfully won arm, jamming it against the scarred stump as she rises to her feet.

“This flesh is of my body, corpse, and does not belong to you; nor do I!” The unbearable heat in the room dissipates and El’una’s candles roar back to life. She worries the arm, holding it against her as she moves for her circle in the centre of the room, her mangled leg dragging lamely behind her.

 _Inhale_ : deflect - the beam of ice blasts off of an invisible shield and El’una braces herself carefully - Despair moans with the sorrow of ages behind it and levels a ruthless spear of ice towards the weakened elf.

“You may not have me.” El’una says, managing to fling the wouldbe tool of impalement against the wall where it shatters.

“Then what will you have, imitator?” Despair snaps, coating the ceiling with knife-like projections of ice. “You who has _nothing_?”

“Hope.” The elf snaps, whipping her good arm around and using all that is still capable within her to ride the Fade, willingly ripping a gaping hole in the veil and turning its energy to her purpose. Fen’Harel’s knife skips across the floor and sails into the open air, making squishy contact with her bloody palm.

_Exhale._

Weak legs find propulsion into empty space and El’una drags Despair to the blood-slicked floor with her blade in the side of its skull. Icy fingers scrape and tear at her face and hair as El’una straddles the demon. One claw catches her, opening her cheek and freezing her blood as it sprays into the air and falls to the floor, scattering like crimson hail into the pools of wax that have formed around them.

Despite this, El’una remains silent; focused. Her fist strikes the side of Despair’s face with a shuddering crack and while keeping her new arm behind her, she digs into the pocket of her skirts, grasping first things she finds before withdrawing her hand and giving Despair another slug for good measure before surveying the contents in her palm: Quartz, a silver coin, a nail clipping that looks as though it belongs to the middle finger of a broad-fingered male, and bronze coated button that she knows once belonged to Commander Cullen.

Something dangerous lights in her eyes and without hesitation she wrenches Despair’s maw open, shoving in the quartz and the button. She stacks a knee on the demon’s mouth as she frees her hand to place the fingernail in the spectre’s robe and the coin over its right eye. She tosses her head back, works up a generous amount of saliva, and spits on Despair’s face. Her fingers - still holding the coin in place as the demon writhes and shrieks - dig into the dry skin of its face, tearing and pulling away streaks of ash.

“Take me.” El’una invites, bearing her full weight down on the struggling demon underneath her. “You can’t!”

Despair’s eyes go wide as its lips strain under El’una’s knee. Muffled screams rip the air and willowy arms flail frantically until the body that makes them succumbs to the curse of the elf and disintegrates to bits of frost and ash. For the second time, Solas’ knife strikes the floor.

Laying on a bed of cold, El’una shudders and sweats. Her right hand goes to her torn leg and feels the wound there. Her fingers are met with sticky flesh and drying blood, the clean seams of an open wound and a troubling lack of moisture surrounding it. She falls to her back and lifts her left arm; it is grey and darkly veined, creating a grotesque and noticeable border to her living flesh but… it is hers, and she did it without killing anybody. All she had to do was fight off a nasty demon. All she had to do was live.

She feels cliched, as her eyelids become too heavy to keep open, and darkness takes her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a really, really awful day some time ago, and this chapter was the result. I still read it and cringe. 
> 
> It was an excellent outlet, at the time, though.


	20. Chapter 20

She finds herself atop a hill. The air around her carries the same nip and crisp quality as the air might on a mid-autumn evening. The sun sits low in the sky, and the clouds lining the horizon create a majestic landscape of golds and pinks while the sky above clings to its desperation to be blue. There are no trees or buildings in sight; only rolling hills and golden grass.

She is not alone.

“I only need a little solitude, my love.” She says to the wordless figure that sits next to her on the hill: She does not let him in; not all the way. “Must find a way to catch alight my breath, you know?” She pulls at threads on skirts and adjusts her hair and pulls her scarf up higher on her neck to fend off the cold wind.

“You’re doing well?’ He ventures.

“I’m doing _something_.” She replies: It’s the only thing she thinks to say. “That’s better than nothing, yes?” Her fingers find dead grass and immediately begin tearing it out of the earth. She struggles then; half-here, Solas shares space with her for the first time since Vitriol, and before that, the crossroads. The sensation pervading is that of a delicate truce - she can’t say she’s happy that he has found her in the Fade, but she cannot keep herself from asking the next question. “You’re… you’re doing alright as well?” She says finally, still staring at her crossed legs.

“No.” He responds curtly.

“Hm.” Is the breadth of what she can manage genuinely; she would like to say she cares. Truth be told, she’d like to throw him out of this dream, but she can’t bring herself to -  she’s just so _tired_ : Tired from Despair, tired from bleeding, tired from slowly dying. Considering this, she throws up a few more subtle wards, aware that she can’t have a moment of weakness betraying her location. “I apologize for the last time, I… I had no idea that would happen. It’s probably not wise for you to be here. Would hate to make the same mistake again.” She says, still staring at the ground.

“That what would happen? - oh.” He catches himself when he seems to recall the event she is referring to. He is quiet for a long time, but then he says, “Humility told me how you feel - You couldn’t have known. I want to be here.”

“Yes well, you’ve made a point of ‘ _being here_ ’ frequently since our last parting. Why stop for a chat now? You aren’t exactly in the habit of being entirely open, are you?” She notes. “Not that it would matter - we’ve built ourselves a wonderful foundation for causing each other harm.”

“I would ask you once again to reconsider your course and live out your remaining time peacefully, but I know that you would not listen.” He sounds slightly amused, she thinks; likely because he actually wouldn’t expect anything less from her. Too bad her remaining time is shorter than he knows - that is, if she ever wakes up.

She blinks and looks up into the twilight sky; a thin film of wavy clouds skims overtop of them, making the sky look warm and soft where she knows it to be frigidly cold so high up. “I might,” She admits. “If I thought it mattered.” She sighs and leans back on her hands, still not looking at him when she says, “What have I become?” She doesn’t wait for an answer before continuing, “I have done… I have done things since we parted that I would never have justified doing in the past. I see the person I am now - try to see her from the outside looking in - and had I known of such a person when I was Inquisitor, I would have done everything in my power to have her stopped.”

“Remarkable, the things we find ourselves capable of in pursuit of a goal.” He muses, and El’una would like to slap him.

“Don’t compare me to you.” She entreats, digging around in the satchel next to her on the grass and digging out her tarot cards; she notes that her left arm is whole and complete at the moment, that and it has a healthy, normal look about it - it isn’t the dead-looking monstrosity she had glimpsed before passing out. Silence falls between them as she shuffles the deck with practiced fingers and stares out at the sunset. For a long time, the only sound is the noise the cards make as they slip against each other.

“You have the soul of the sun:  All you need do is invite it.” He tells her.

She only grunts absently, focused on her task. “You would say that, wouldn’t you?” The cards are spread unevenly before her on the grass and she considers them for a time. “I suppose it’s not all bad that you’ve managed to find me at this precise moment. I have something to tell you anyway.”

“Oh?” He respond familiarly; this is an utterance that she has heard frequently in the past -  a betrayal of genuine curiosity.

“Aye: You need to remove your people from Tevinter, Strange Solas.” She dictates blandly, focusing on the spread of cards - focusing on opening herself to what they may be able to tell her. “You may think yourself clandestine, but your agents are beginning to draw the wrong sort of attention. I say this out of care for them: They may be free, but the men and women of the Imperium will not see it that way.”

“They are protected.” He explains briefly.

El’una snorts, “Pride indeed.” She peels her eyes from the cards and surveys her surroundings once more; this part of the Fade is simple, unembellished, and foreign - she’s never seen a place like this before. She finds herself trying to pull herself back into waking life, but is met with nothing but an understanding of more plains and hills, rolling out into eternity: A troubling result. All she can do is hope that someone has found her clinging to life in the cellars of the estate and given her aid, otherwise she may be trapped in this place forever. “I’m unsurprised that you would travel to Tevinter, but take it from one leader to another: You need to find a different way to gain whatever it is you seek… that is, unless you view your followers as expendable chattel.”

“You have impressive connections, despite not having an Inquisition at your beck and call.” Solas observes.

“I don’t need one.” She states, smiling at her cards. “I’m doing quite well in Ferelden on my own. No one has tried to murder the Divine yet, and Leliana continues to evade your grasp - though I’m told you have tried to have her incapacitated.”

“Another remarkable spirit.” Solas admits.

“She’s something.” El’una agrees. “I’d tell you of her private reading with me if I thought you deserved to know.”

He takes the insult in stride and says, “Your connections in the Imperium are serving you well also.”

“If you attempt on the lives of Dorian or my Dreamer again, I will make a point of ensuring that what happened to _those_ agents was a kindness in comparison.” She promises. “Your other option is to agree to meet with me in Waking so that we might try to talk this out: Just you and me, alone and without pretense. There’s a way out of this, heart. You only need to set aside your…”

“Pride.” He finishes for her.

“How apt.” She points out. “I’m certain you’ve noticed. I’m sure you have a sense of what I’ve become capable of in recent months - this is bigger than you and I, Strange Solas - it is time to consider the bottles that haven’t spilt.”

She hears Solas draw breath, and she knows he has opened his mouth and is about to say something implying concern.

“Don’t.” She interjects. “Do not exhibit care for me now: I won’t have it.” She picks a card finally and flips it, sighing at the image on its face. “I made a choice when you walked through that eluvian; I will pursue you until I can convince you that there is value in this world, or until I am a rotting corpse in the ground - our relationship is not one that can afford mutual consideration for the other’s feelings.” The card twists in her fingers and becomes a forget-me-not which is left on the ground with the remaining cards as she rises to her feet. “If you do succeed, I will meet you by the ashes of this world if it takes me a thousand years to get there, and you will still answer to me, my love. Now get off my side of the Fade.”

In an instant she is gone, and Solas is left within the remnants of a rapidly deteriorating dream. The setting sun melts from the sky, and the grass evaporates away, leaving pools of blackness beneath it. He reaches out and with end card nearest to him, flips them all with a motion: Every single one bears the image of a tower.

* * *

 

Sound returns first; the tip-tap of rain colliding with windows and the crackling of a fire. She feels herself swallow, her tongue feeling thick and dry in her mouth. She stirs, and feels the soft cotton sheets she is enveloped in brush against her skin. She clenches her fingers - all ten of them - and finally opens her eyes. Awake, alive: I’m alive.

Frantic at this realization, she scrambles from the bed and onto her feet, only standing for a moment before her right leg trembles and gives way under her weight. Her knees collide with the floor with an angry thud, and she catches herself with her palms on the ground.

She stares at her hands; one is as it always has been; healthy and whole, if a bit scarred. The other one…

Well, that didn’t work as well as I’d hoped, she decides as she takes in the sight of her blood-earned left arm. It matches her right almost perfectly in size and proportion, but that’s where the similarity ends: The skin of this arm is grey-green and mottled with dark patches of bruises and congealed blood. Almost every vein is visible through the translucent skin, creating a road map of dark purple lines, and while it doesn’t seem to smell like rot at the moment, it certainly looks like it might, if given enough time. The arm is most definitely botched, she concludes, but she understands that this is likely the price that came along with practicing such an intensive blood magic ritual without the sacrifice of an unwilling party: She’d already crossed enough boundaries with this; she wasn’t willing to stoop to the lowest level available to her. Her own blood given freely may not have made the spell as potent as it might have been otherwise, but harming someone else was not something she was prepared to do.

Suddenly she remembers unworldly sobbing and icy claws, and her hand flies to wrap around the back of her leg where she bled herself. Fingers meet clean bandages and a wound that does not hurt at the touch. She picks away the bandage and feels for the gash, finding only scarred over skin that still feels swollen and hot, but does not appear to be leaking or infected. She looks around the room for long enough to know she’s still in Dorian’s estate, and feels a smile come to her face as she utters silent, inward thanks to magical healing.

Pulling herself up using the sides of the bed, she holds her hand over the remnants of the wound, reaching for the Fade, and preparing to push aside the veil, only… nothing happens.

The wound tingles a bit, maybe looks a bit redder, but it does not finish healing.

Frowning, she tries again, breathing in deeply as she increases her focus and draws upon the Fade once more, only to be met again with a troubling amount of nothing.

She swears quietly under her breath and vows to deal with this later; recalibrating her connection to the Fade should be as simple as meditating for a time, Dreaming, and supplementing these things with an intake of herbs and tinctures that would enhance her connection. For now, if the occasion called for it, she could wield a sword again. Keeping this in mind, she limps towards the door, caring little about the glamour; if she’s right someone will be right outside guarding the room, and -.

“You’re awake!” The door bursts open just as she reaches for it and she hops back a step, reaching down to brace her weakened leg. Dorian skids through the door, catches sight of her and slams it shut with a push of force from his hand.

“How did… how did you - ?” She stammers, backing away from the grinning, and rapidly advancing mage.

“Know you were awake?” The magister beams, closing the gap and grabbing her by the shoulders, shaking her a bit roughly for someone who is pleased to see their friend still lives. “I was alerted the instant you plummeted out of bed! You weren’t exactly quiet, from what I’m told.”

She lifts her hands and places them on Dorian’s shoulders, pushing him away with the hope that a little distance will cease his apparent attempt at scrambling her brain within her skull. “Stop.” She says. “Stop! Why are you shaking me?!”

Fingers dig into her own shoulders and Dorian draws her close. She winces at the feel of his fingertips buried in her muscles.

“Because if I didn’t possess the discipline that I do, I might try and kill you myself.” He hisses through clenched teeth, all joy gone from his voice. “What do you think you’re playing at, El’una? Blood magic? And not even the safe, sacrifice-someone-else’s-blood variety?”

“Come Dorian; you know how I love a challenge.” She grates out, and her lip curls as she gazes defiantly down her nose at Dorian. “Unhand me, if you would - no pun intended.”

He does loosen his grip on her, but as she draws away, he catches her by the left wrist and holds her by the limb, peering at it assessingly. “It’s revolting.” He concludes, and she snatches the deathly limb away indignantly.

“Some would say the outside matches what lays within.” She quips. “I on the other hand - again, no pun intended - wear it as a badge of pride; how many people do _you_ know that could spill their own blood, reanimate a limb, and live to tell the tale?” She regards him with haughty indifference; daring him wordlessly to chide her further.

Dorian rises to the bait and says, “Had another five minutes passed before you were found, you certainly wouldn’t have lived to tell anything!” His eyes sweep over her, from her butchered arm to her matted hair and hollow cheeks. “What’s happening to you, my friend?” He asks, his tone considerably more even. “You’re slipping away faster than ever with these cavalier activities. Is that what you want? You’re using your body like a carnival ground: When was the last time you slept? - actually slept without Dreaming.” He adds. “How about a decent meal? When did you last have one of those? I’ve seen your little cellar room, you know. After you were brought up here I went down to assess the damage and figure out who I could trust to mop up that much blood and keep quiet about it: I’ve seen the lyrium and the pipes and herbs - many of which I know to be toxic if consumed in large quantities; something you are obviously doing to enhance your connection to the Fade.” He forces her to meet his own eyes with only a glance. “By the gods, El’una… I hate that I’m even saying it, but: What would _he_ think if he saw you in such a state over all of this?”

Her scowl only deepens. “I don’t care.” She rasps with a dry voice. “I really, really don’t.” She turns her back on her friend and makes for the writing desk, moving gingerly due to her wounded leg. She sits, pulls herself close to the desk and pulls a sheet of fresh parchment from the box of stationery placed on the corner. “I have little care for what condition this body is in when it goes into the ground, and even less care for what Solas thinks of said condition - it is my body, is it not? I’ll do what I must to it in order to get what I need - it’s what he would do.” A quill is selected, and the nib is loaded with ink. She begins scratching words into paper, and does not pause to look up at Dorian when she speaks again. “I will be leaving the city tomorrow.”

“What?!” Dorian steps forward, bluster renewed. “You nearly bled yourself to death three days ago! You can’t rightly go knocking about the wilderness by yourself!”

She is silent until she finishes her missive, signing the document with a note of finality before looking up at Dorian and neatly setting her quill down. “Want to try and stop me?” She asks politely. “I am proficient in Dreaming, staffless magic, glamours, and I now have a left arm again; given a bit of practice, I would consider myself a threat with a sword. Let’s not forget the curses either, or did you happen to overlook the remains of Despair, piled on your cellar floor? It is time for me to leave.” She re-emphasizes. “I haven’t much time left, and there are things I would like to do after I’ve excised Solas’ agents from the area.”

“Do you even have any idea where you plan to go?” Dorian asks, not looking agreeable with all of this, but certainly less confrontational about it.

“When you brought me here you told me that rumours circulated about strange cells of elves wandering around near the area of the Arlathan Forest - it would make little sense for Solas to be based inside the forest, but nearby is likely a safe bet. The agent I interrogated slipped and made mention of the state of my dress; he noted that the blood was nearly dry, and for that reason, his fellow agents were likely away to safety. It had been a little over three hours since the events in the dining hall happened; in his arrogance he betrayed a radius to me. I also found a twig in his hair that belongs to a young, leaf bearing tree - probably hawberry or thornapple. I have a rough idea where to look for them, and as you asked me, I intend to do so.” She shudders suddenly and her hand flies to grip the side of her ribcage as she slumps forward slightly and gasps. A few deep coughs escape her and she licks her lips free of blood before sitting up straight and wiping a few stray flecks off the parchment in front of her. “I spoke with him while I was asleep… I told him to leave. I served warning.”

“He won’t go.” Dorian surmises.

“No.” She confirms, rolling the parchment, sealing it and crossing to the veranda and the raven that is kept there.

“Who is that for?” Dorian asks, watching El’una tie the letter to the waiting leg of the jet-black bird.

She stifles another cough, steadies herself against the wall and says, “Leliana. She supposedly has two other agents within the country waiting for me. I’d hate to mistake either of them for a threat like I did poor Zevran.”

“If you’re leaving tomorrow, that’s hardly time for a response from her.”

“I have faith that she’ll be able to find me, regardless of address.”

“You’ve certainly thought this all through, haven’t you?” Dorian mentions, crossing his arms. “Truth be told, I’ve become accustomed to you haunting my hallways and guestrooms. It’s a shame to know that it’s over.”

“Only fair after you spent so much time haunting mine. A day came when you left for the last time too.” She reminds him. “I’ll be…” She pauses and her eyes drop as she sets herself up for what she’s about to promise. “I’ll be back before the end, you have my word.”

“Yes well, if you fail to hold up your end of that promise, I’ll be forced to bring you back so that I might kill you again for being so selfish.”

She laughs dryly, holds out an arm for the raven to hop onto, and shuffles to the door to the veranda. The clouds beyond are black and heavy, and the rain is unrelenting. It hits her face and bare skin when she pulls on the door and casts the bird out into the storm.

She inhales deeply, taking familiar solace in the scent of rain, feeling more invigorated with the simple breeze and humidity than she has in months.

“I won’t let you down.” She says finally, turning from the door, absentmindedly stretching and flexing her new hand. “It’d be impossible.”

“Why?” The magister asks, arching an eyebrow.

“Because there’s always hope.”


	21. Chapter 21

Ages considered, the armory has remained in good condition. The initial hurried sweep through this place months earlier had yielded the bare necessities; items stocked and stored in the carefullest and dustiest of corners away from the meticulously crafted shields and bows; spoils of well placed trickery and convenient timing - things that no one would think to look for when enemies press in from all around. 

Now though. Now there are no enemies nearby; no one to threaten, harm or infringe. It is sanctuary, this place again - as it was always meant to be. Countable years (for those who would spend the time counting) live on makeshift sleeping surfaces and weapons of war. It brings back memories of what Skyhold might have been like had it been rapidly abandoned and forgotten: Rooms full of so many people and emotions are hard to ever properly empty. 

A scattered and dog-eared page scratches across the floor, drifting sideways across the room in a slight breeze until it comes to rest next to the shape of a print left by a bare foot on the dirty floor. He feels a muscle in his jaw reflexively pull at the sight of it; there has been a highway of tracks left in this room due to the invasion of Qunari and the resulting skirmish that ensued with their arrival; he hasn’t bothered to examine the tracks closely due to what he could only attribute to self-preservation. 

This print has ambushed him though, in a moment of fancy. It does not belong to one of the gray giants: It is too narrow and short, its toes only leaving pebble-sized imprints in the dust. He finds its mirror a few inches to the left, another a few inches further, and before he is in agreeance with himself, he is following the historical choreography of the last dance his beloved did in this ruined place.

A series of clear, well-defined paces suggest an effort to cover long ground in a short time - someone accompanying her, likely Dorian by the shape of the nearest boot prints and scorch marks - was in need of aid. At a distance like this her sword would have been drawn, and the neat swirl left by her toes in the dust confirms his supposition. The landscape of brown blood stains and the skeletal rot in the immediate vicinity confirms it: Magic still lives here; old magic. Like birds of carrion on the modern world, there exists remnants of things in this place that are hungry for the flesh of the dead as well. 

The distinct prints veer in the opposite direction now, closer to alcove of books and tables to the left. The patterns struck into reality vary from solid prints to blurred smudges left by the balls of her feet, or to clear heel strikes and delicate patterns breathed into the dust in the wake of the bladed-staff she saw fit to wield alongside that runed sword of hers. 

More remains litter the floor on this side of the room, and the dainty prints come to halt by a table full of the least dusty literature in the room. He watches, almost seeing her tangibly appear with the footprints that pace around the small library - stepping rapidly; pausing; shifting slightly; resuming. 

He is alone, but he can hear the exasperated huff that accompanies the phantom these footprints leave behind. He follows the steps as they move towards the exit; confident, long, swaying strides; the sword has been sheathed and the staff placed over her shoulder. She has found all she can in this place - it is time to move on.

Careful not to disturb the marks she left him with, he negotiates his way around them, wondering what she was thinking at the precise moment she made them. The prints angle, every now and then; shorten. It’s clear she took the time to speak to those who accompanied her. He feels himself smile; she’s just as likely to utter a joke, or a paradoxically cynical remark. “A barracks and a library; such a meeting of the minds.” She had probably said, looking over her shoulder to smile coquettishly at the friends who followed her. 

He can’t help but take notice in her absence that as soon as the words left her mouth and her pace resumed, it halted again: These next marks in the grit are deep, revealing the original colour of the stone below due to the textiles that had scraped it. A wide swath of dust has been cleared in this area as if a body had occupied the space and then been moved. A palm print - the first - lingers on the floor. He feels himself swallow as realization totals itself accordingly; the print belongs to that of the right palm of a woman’s hand. The marks nearest to it are unclear and smudged together as if the person leaving them had been forced to the ground by some immeasurable pain. 

He looks forward: One of the stone floor tiles is fractured and cracked as if someone had stabbed a sword directly down into it. 

Beyond the ruined stone, the footprints carry on.


	22. Chapter 22

She lifts an eye open when a tiny ‘ _psssst!_ ’ draws her from her slumber.

A small, chubby face fills her field of vision. Wide blue eyes blink expectantly and light up in a gappy smile. Little hands grasp the covers and the child pulls herself onto the bed, wasting no time before nuzzling into the crook of El’una’s arm and resting on the pillow, her back to her.

“You’re awake, ma.” The little girl observes sweetly, pressing a slightly jammy kiss to the inside of El’una’s arm before sighing contentedly.

“I certainly appear to be.” El’una agrees, pressing her own lips to the crown of dark wavy hair on the girl’s head, and inhaling; she smells of sweets and violets. She smiles and arranges the white down blankets around herself so the tiny child is also enveloped in them. “It’s too late in the day for nightmares, so what brings you here?”

“I - “ The child begins, but is cut off when the door to the familiar white room bursts open and another child scuttles through it, his bare feet slapping the floor and his tightly curled mop of hair springing about his face as he launches himself onto the bed as well. The girl pushes herself up on the palm of her hands, looking indignant at this sudden intrusion.

“Iona claims I’m simple!” The boy, who appears to be a year or two older than his counterpart, claims, holding up for El’una, a rather crinkled sheet of parchment covered with ink blots and clumsy lines. “Look!” He says, thrusting the parchment towards El’una, who has sat up herself now so that she might get a better look. She grasps the sheet in her hand and inspects it for a moment before turning her gaze on the boy who sits on the bed, crouched on his knees waiting expectantly.

“Simple is better than complicated.” She points out fairly before looking at the little girl who is trying valiantly to wrest the pillow away from under her mother’s hand so that she might hide under it. “Is this true, child?” She asks the squirming youth.

“His lettering is awful!” The young elf squeaks defiantly. “And his spelling is atrocious!”

El’una raises an eyebrow and scoops the young one up under her arm and against her belly. “Atrocious?” She repeats. “That’s a rather impressive word for someone your age.”

“Pa taught it to me.” The girl remarks proudly. On the other side of El’una’s knees, the boy rolls his eyes pointedly.

“Hmmmm…” El’una hums, eyes moving now to the figure that stands at the door, observing silently. “Along with ‘appalling,’ ‘arrogance,’ and ‘academia,’ I suppose?” Colour spreads slightly across the girl’s cheeks and her face forms a bashful expression. “Perhaps your father will be a better judge of your brother’s skill than I. Lettering was never a strong suit of mine.”

Understanding the cue, Solas departs from the doorway with a wry smile and crosses the room to the bed, accepting the outstretched sheet of parchment from El’una’s hand and joining them among the soft blankets. His throat is cleared and he collects their son under his arm and stretches his legs out as he studies the slightly damp page, pausing only to smear a bit of wet ink onto the cheek of the curly haired boy next to him.

“Pa!” The lad groans with a level of beleaguered world-weariness that only a five year old would be capable of. He scrubs at his face for a moment, before returning his focus on the paper gripped in Solas’ hands. “Tell Iona she’s wrong! My letters are fine! Just because we can’t _all_ have a giant head like hers doesn’t mean we’re stupid.” He mutters darkly, concentrating on the blotchy ink, his tongue poking out the side of his mouth - a trait El’una is well aware she is commonly guilty of as well.

Her beloved laughs at the solemn conviction of the child, and El’una can only stare at him as he sits less than a foot away; within reach and so unabashedly content as he engages with these children - his children - _their_ children.

There is no mention or assumption of the world ending; no indication of a land torn asunder by an elvhen resurgence. It is as though many of the most recent discussions they’d had over the course of their time line never happened at all.

No goodbyes.

No farewells.

No promises or guilt.

No city illness or blood magic.

Just this - this white room that she is quite certain had been red at some time or another, the man she loves, and two beautiful (if spirited) children, falling over each other as they argue about lettering and spelling of all things: What she would give for a life of such simple disagreements.

She rests her hand on his arm for only a moment, as if to make it all real by touch alone, and then slides from the bed to pour a cup of water from the pitcher on the table near the window.

“Upon examination, it appears clear to me that you’ve a more than adequate understanding of letters.” She hears Solas explain. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. Perhaps the only thing that may require a bit of focus is your over-eagerness with a quill - take your time, child: Writing the words faster does not make them any better where quality is called into question.”

“ _Yeah._ ” Iona pipes up knowledgeably, agreeing with her father as if what he had to say was what she had meant the entire time. El’una snorts at the remark, her back still to her family as she sets the jug of water down and turns.

She starts at the sight that meets her, and the cup slips from her hand and clatters to the floor, soaking her feet and the hem of her nightdress. Bracing herself with her hands against the table, she pulls against it as Solas grins at her from the bed that is empty aside from him.

This isn’t him: This was never him.

“Leave.” She says immediately without hesitation. “Leave this place now.”

Solas’ arms are crossed and his head tilts inquisitively in such an alien and unfamiliar movement that any lingering wonder if this is in fact the man she knows are swept away. “Why leave when we could stay like this forever, vhenan?”

Unbidden, she feels a tear carve a path down her cheek, and she strains to still her shaking hands. “You are a cruel beast.” She whispers to the duplicate of Solas.

“Cruel?” The demon says, looking self-righteously taken aback. “Cruel for extending such creative and unselfish altruism to a woman who has nothing left?” Solas smiles at her with pointed teeth. “Or might have everything, if she only asks for it. A bit of… solace so to speak.”It draws out the word ironically as if it is clever or something.

“I am familiar with how asking works, and am even more so familiar with how it typically ends up with your sort.”

“My sort?” The phantom of Solas hisses unnaturally; it occurs to her that this waxwork, though true to form with a cursory glance, is little more than a crude mockery upon further examination: His eyes are slightly too far apart, his chin visibly too short and wide. “I’m offering you help, you prideful woman; a chance for all that you just witnessed to be real, instead of just the pained figment that drew me here in the first place. Your longing for a life of happiness and freedom and health is loud and palpable in its desperation. You mustn’t lie to yourself, dear girl - if you really had no desire to hear me out, you’d have banished me the moment you gleaned my true nature.”

“Then you must have missed the part when I told you to leave.” She says stoically. “Twice, actually - in a row.”

The demon’s neck rolls to the side; a pained squirm, physically betraying how monumentally stupid it figures her to be. “ _Listen_.” It says sharply. “I can give you everything you’ve witnessed: I can remove your disease and make you healthy and sound again. I can bring _him_ back to you and he’ll be yours till the end of your days and the pair of you will whelp spawn and be so, so in love until the void that comes for everyone, eventually touches your shoulders with its icy hand and bears you both into life after death… together.” Solas sits forward and rests his hands on his thighs. “Hell, I’ll even correct the absolute hack-job you managed on that arm of yours.” It smiles saliciously. “A normal life. A happy ending: Simplicity - like everyone else has. Haven’t you suffered enough, my dear?” The demon pouts at her sympathetically. “All you have to do is say ‘ _yes_.’”

Had this particular manifestation of Envy appeared to her shortly after the Exalted Council concluded, she might have been tempted to bend to its wicked words: She can’t say she’s entirely un-tempted now: A life with jammy fingers and ink blotches and soft blankets and Solas seems foolish to pass up, nestled in the current and encompassing state of rock bottom that she occupies currently.

She steps closer to the bed, climbing onto the end and crawling towards the familiar figure nestled in the pillows. “You can make all of these things work? Actually?” She whispers, drawing close to the demon that would be Solas. Her hips are atop his and her arms planted next to his shoulders as a lock of hair slips over her own shoulder and pools on his chest. Their faces are inches away from each other, and she can smell his breath like sulfur where it breaks against her skin.

“All of these and more.” The demon promises, its voice low and rough as its eyes drift to El’una’s lips.

“Mmmm…” She purrs, placing gentle kisses along its jawline till her mouth finds the shell of a pointed ear. “You’ve overlooked one detail, though.”

“Have I?” He asks, circling its arm around her waist and pulling her closer. “Do tell, dearest.”

Carefully, she drags her teeth slowly over the soft skin of the demon’s ear lobe before hissing, “I don’t _want_ this anymore.”

“What - ?” The demon is not allowed to complete its confused query; with her teeth fastened on its ear, and her fingertips at its throat, she makes short work of easing her fingers under skin and ripping its neck open, showering herself and the room with blood - not unlike another dream she had in a place like this.

“Got off easier than Despair did, eh?” She informs Solas’ twitching corpse as she slaps her hand into the blood that has pooled on his chest, splattering a bit more gore around the room. She slides from the bed, and spits out a chunk of ear, admiring her handiwork for a silent period of time before drawing a deep breath and seizing on her invisible lifeline into waking.

She rocks gently in rhythm with the boat she is on. Fingers find wet cheeks and defiantly wipe them dry on the scratchy burlap she has wrapped herself in: The demon may not have triumphed, but nothing about what just occurred feels like a victory to her. Truth be told, she is hungrier than ever for that perfect illusion she had witnessed in the Fade. It was no lie when she told the creature that she had no desire for a simple life anymore, for she has taken that dream and compartmentalized it into a safe, locked, and hidden place, along with the rest of her aspirations that she has set aside like ill-fitting garments: Just because she no longer strives for them, does not mean she doesn’t take them out and admire them from time to time.

A rattling sigh escapes her and she turns what little bit she can to get a look out of the gaps in the hull of the trade ship she has stowed away on. The moon dances on the swells and breaks of the sea around her, and by her reckoning port will be made on the southernmost tip of Seheron come dawn. Where she’s meant to go after that, she hasn’t a clue: Leliana’s response to her letter detailing her plan to leave had yielded an even more vague response than normal, with the spymaster mentioning not much else but the name of this ship, what time it departs, and where it makes berth. Of all the places to send her in search of Solas’ people, literally shipping her off to Seheron was the completely wrong direction El’una needed to be going in. Understanding that she hasn’t much of a choice to change her course at the moment, she instead digs around in the satchel at her waist and withdraws a faintly glowing vial of lyrium potion.

She glances around the hull of the ship, ensuring that the other fellow travelers are slumbering before she uncorks the vial and downs the potion, pressing her tongue against the roof of her mouth at the familiar tingling sensation that accompanies the lyrium. Sighing, she closes her eyes as that tingle branches out from her core and dances to the tips of her fingers and toes, simultaneously chilling and warming her as familiar closeness with the Fade envelopes her like an embrace. A shudder rolls up her spine at the feeling; it is true that her use of blood magic has dulled her connection to the Fade, but with the amount of lyrium she’s dosed over the past day and night - likely an unhealthy amount - she can feel it coming back to her.

She corks the bottle, and replaces it in her satchel. Her hand pauses on the leather ties when she feels the sensation of someone’s eyes on her hunkered form. Looking up into the darkness of the hull, a flash of lightning through the gaps in the ship illuminates the figure standing by the stairs to the deck, unmoving, but clearly focused on her.

“Greetings, dearest.” Solas mutters, another flash illuminating vibrant green eyes set against his pale skin.

El’una gasps and her fingers let the strings slide free as she presses her back against the crates around her: This is not possible… it cannot be here. I killed it myself. “I killed you myself!” She voices the thought and her eyes cast around, hoping for any sign that someone might be awake and come to her aid.

“Did you?” The demon asks rhetorically, standing from the beam it had been leaning on and pacing casually from side-to-side. “Yet here I stand.” It remarks cruelly. “I am not done with you, woman: I do not like being denied what I want.”

El’una slides to her feet, keeping her back pressed to the crates. The lightning flashes again and the ship bobs hard on a swollen wave, causing her to almost lose her footing. “Leave me.” She hisses, not ignorant of the stirring forms of sleeping people that are slowly returning to waking. “Twisted, lost spirit - you have become only lies and hunger, and I will not cater to you!” She bunches the burlap cover closer around herself as she feels behind her with her left hand and carefully begins negotiating her way backwards through the maze of crates around them.

“ _Cups and crates and staves and wine…_ ” The demon sings in a juvenile fashion as it edges closer to her. “ _Pentacles, towers_ \- not enough time.”

“ _Leave!_ ” She shouts in elven, regaining her feet after the ship is tossed once again. Some of the dozing travellers are tossed from their own feet, and begin their rise again. Sea water is splashing in the gaps of the hull now, drenching her from head to toe and making the wood floor beneath her slick and dangerous - as if the heaving quality it had adopted was not already perilous enough.

The mockery of Solas laughs, bringing its hands up to its sides admonishingly. “Not without you my desperate darling!” He tells her. “I can’t imagine an existence without you by my side. Now come, my dear. Take my hand and we will away, and this will all be so much easier!”

“I have nothing that you want; you as much told me so yourself!” She spits, turning and ducking behind a different row of crates and crawling across the floor on her belly.

The beast groans obscenely with Solas’ voice. “Not _true_! It’s not often one stumbles upon someone so remarkably bloody in scent and appearance. You’ll do whatever it takes to get what you want - a quality I find _intoxicating_ , somehow.”

She scurries on her hands and knees behind a bank of transport cages, some of which are full of hens. People are on their feet now, she can see from the gaps, though they are not exhibiting any sort of surprise or fear at the distraction unfolding around them: It is as though she and Solas are invisible, and El’una wonders for an instant if perhaps she is only lost in another incredibly vivid dream.

When waking doesn’t work, she instead grabs instinctually for the power that tingles and crackles under her skin. Shooting to her feet, she catches a glimpse of the horrifying tableau that has arranged itself within the dark, wet hull: The demon shaped like Solas stands surrounded by the pliant and waiting forms of the travellers of the ship. A crack and another burst of light illuminate their darkened eyes and warped faces as they begin to close in around her.

“Come with me, dear.” Solas says smoothly; compassionately. “Take my hand now, or I will haunt every plan, step, and dream you have. I will make the nightmares you have seen appear as kindnesses. I will redefine your understanding of what evil truly is.”

Taking a deep breath, El’una tilts her head forward, raises her hands to the sides and says, “I have already done that myself.”

There is another bright flash of light, though this one is out of time with the thunder that accompanies it. The hull of the ship is bathed in white and there is a tremendous crack as barrels of lantern oil burst into flame, the pressure of their contents exploding and splashing fire into the sea and the planks beneath El’una are ripped away and replaced with weightlessness, water, and the taste of salt.

* * *

 

“Careful with her head ya complete fuckin’ idiot - can ya not see she isn’t well?”

“Fuck you.”

“Aye? Wanna come say that a few feet closer, Pinky? I’ll pull your own fuckin’ head off!”

“Both of you shut up. Or would you prefer to be caught toting around an unconscious elven mage in these parts?”

She feels hard muscle shift as the individual carrying her adjusts her weight and grunts. She manages to open her eyes for only a second before they shudder closed again at the strain; something is covering her face. A sack or something similar.

“Nae.”

“This wasn’t supposed to happen.” Another voice joins the conversation; feminine. Concerned. Dalish. “Do you think she’ll be alright?” The voice drops to a worried whisper. “The screaming…”

“We need to get her to shelter first. And away from other people.” The voice that had rebuked the first two growls. As sound is replaced by a steady ringing in her ears and she slips into darkness again, she’s quite sure she hears the same voice mutter, “Damnable mages...”

 


	23. Chapter 23

She’s at it again - the mage - scraping her fingernails obsessively down the stone walls of the cave. Each prolonged _scriiiiiitch_ drives shivers up his spine until he can take it no more: Between this and the incessant and mostly untranslatable muttering that issues from her when she wakes, this cavern has become a self-contained nightmare.

This… woman, is not what he had been meant to find washed up on the beach; waterlogged and rambling - spitting and biting and cursing - her eyes rolling back until they were white as he and Pinky managed to drag her ashore and have Merrill sedate her.

“Bind her hands!” He snaps finally, tossing his mostly full dinner tin to the rocky floor and standing: He can’t take anymore of this.

“Bind?” The woman repeats. Her clawing halts and she is intrigued and staring at him from her spot in the corner; splayed and unnatural in her arrangement on the rough ground. “Bind, bounding, bound.” She cranes her head and her foot twangs the leather strap that fastens her to a sizeable boulder a few feet away. He watches with something similar to disgust as her shoulders roll and her neck twists until her head is nearly upside down and deranged eyes perforate the steam of the dim cavern and pierce his own in an extremely unsettling way. “Wardens did that to the spirits…” She hisses. “You’re not a warden, are you? Hmmmm? ” She asks in a voice that could be mistaken for childlike as she continues to twist and roil against the ground.

“I don’t… I don’t think we should bind her. It doesn’t feel right.”

His head snaps around to glare pointedly at Merrill, meek and quiet near the entryway.

“ARE YOU A GREY WARDEN?! Get away from me! Get your fucking hands away from me!” Her voice shatters against the hard walls and dissolves into an incomprehensible stream of elven as she spits and strains and tears in an effort to pull free of her restraints. “Cloud-bringers, liars and _charlatans_! Hnnn… hnnn ...hnn - _en orlais_ …” She chuckles blackly, her back churning against the stones beneath as she twists and winds the leather strap around her ankle, her morbid left hand reaching out over the distance between them, blood flowing freely as damp skin is lacerated by volcanic rock. “I am ready, Josephine: Bring me the next prisoner for judgement…hnnn… hnn...”

“Do it!” He commands, and Merrill draws herself up instead of wilting as she might have done in years previous.

“I can’t.” She states stonily, her voice rising over the rantings of the former Inquisitor. “Ask Cinaed!” She pauses. “Or: Do it yourself, Fenris - if it bothers you so much.” And then she is gone from the cave, disappearing into the rain.

“This… what is this?”

He whips around again to see Lavellan crawling now towards the eluvian set in the wall at the end of the cave.

“It shines…” She whispers, reaching out for it. “My name. It knows my name. It knows who I am - what I’m here for, what I’m doing.” The leather strap snaps tight and she is halted in her effort to reach the mirror (her ninth today, by his reckoning.) “Why won’t it open? It knows me… knows my purpose. Why won’t it - “

There is a horrible retching sound and when she lifts her head again, he can see the blood down her front and strewn across nearby stones. She falls backwards, her back scraping roughly against the stone that catches her as she wheezes and gags. Pity stirs within him, and with a groan that lands somewhere between frustrated and anguished, he unknots the scrap of red cloth from his forearm and approaches her, sardonically praising the existence of dyes that match the colour of blood as he does so: It isn’t her fault. The last he had heard from Leliana, she was capable. Dying, yes. But coherent and capable: Something has changed during the course of her time at sea, but he, Merrill, Cinaed and Pinky are at a loss for what.

Hence the crow sent hours earlier, and the further hours waiting for Pinky’s return with the crow’s quarry… if _it_ came at all. He’d been half tempted to chastise Merrill then and there for revealing that she had in fact known where the abomination had been all along - and assisted in sheltering him.

“Ohhhhh you hate him…” She rasps when he makes contact with her, using the scrap in his hand to mop up her hands first. He averts his eyes from hers, though he can still feel them burning into him. “Did you ever think about killing yourself?” She coughs. “You don’t really have the temperament of a slave. He’s hnggg… he’s _charming_. Ha!” He is swatted away by her normal hand and the lyrium in his skin singes at the touch. She plants her hands on the ground and pushes herself up a bit more, displaying her neck defiantly, ropes of sea-matted hair drawing across her chest and shoulders as her head bobs in a deranged attempt to focus on him. Her eyes narrow in a moment of lucid perception before they drag to a spot over his shoulder and her nostrils flare with renewed fury. “I WILL NOT!” She shrieks, and he narrowly evades the fingers that claw through the air. “I do not want those things! I don’t want them anymore!” She wails, face twisting in fear as her hands clutch at her arms protectively and she curls her knees to her chest. “Leave me be, spirit! Creature! Beast!” Her frenzied gaze lands on Fenris again and fury falls to shame. “I am… I am sorry ser.” She manages, in what appears to be a fleeting moment of lucidity.

“El’una,” He begins, steeling himself and reaching consolingly for the woman before him.

“You fucked her once, didn’t you?” She growls suddenly, catching his forearm and holding him fast, baring her teeth in an unsightly snarl. “Mmmmmm… you did. Felt good inside Marian, didn’t it? Warm and safe and strong?” She twitches and squirms, a vulgar chuckle issuing from her bloodied nose. “And yet all along you wanted to fuck him. Or… perhaps it was the other way around…”

He tears his arm from her grip and distances himself from her while she cackles like a madwoman.

“Fear not, whore! You are not unwanted: Nobody likes their job!” She croaks, sharp eyes boring into him still.

The ravings of El’una Lavellan follow him into the rain, though he learns quickly that no distance is far enough away from the things he has just witnessed.

* * *

 

Some time after he sees the scowling elf vanish into the brush to check the wards around the cave, Cinaed decides to find the other mage - El’una needs to eat, and leaving her alone in that cave to potentially cause herself further harm is not something that sits well with him.

The hulking cutpurse finds the other mage on the craggy slopes of the granite hill, sitting peacefully, her legs crossed in front of her as she stares out at the iron-grey sea. “You’re magey.” The old man points out as he places his foot atop a large rock and leans into it, clasping hands nearly the size of the Dalish woman’s head. “And an elf. Why can’t you help her?”

Rain streams in rivulets down the woman’s face, causing her dark hair to cling to her cheeks and forehead; she does not seem to mind, or even notice.

“I’ve helped her all I can.” She explains softly, her voice nearly getting lost amongst the rain and crashing surf. “I told you what’s wrong with her. Just because I know, doesn’t mean I can fix it.”

“Lyrium overdose.” Cinaed scoffs, straightening and kicking at the rock with the toe of a well-worn boot. “Seen more’n my fair share of that in my time, but I ain’t ever seen anyone blast apart a ship and become a shrieking lunatic.”

“Lyrium affects mages differently than templars. I’m sure what you’ve seen was the byproduct of sick and forgotten men, left to rot in city alleyways as their minds fled, leaving them catatonic and helpless.” Merrill observes, betraying no emotion with her words. “You saw her left arm; she’s been using blood magic, which interferes with the user’s connection to the Fade. In an effort to reclaim her connection, she imbibed unsafe amounts of lyrium. Something on that ship spooked her - caused her some kind of trauma that made her to react the way she did. That much lyrium makes it easy to overcharge spells and lose control over them… those poor sailors…” She turns her solemn gaze back to the sea. “It also explains the hallucinations - it’s not uncommon to hear of circle mages doing the same; getting overconfident with lyrium usage and then losing track of what’s real and what’s the Fade.”

“Suppose you would know, eh little lady?” Cinaed notes, raising a brow.

“Can’t remember the last time I dreamt of anything.” She says in that gentle voice of hers.

They are silent for a time, both getting lost in the rhythmic thrum of the sea. Cinaed eventually turns to Merrill and offers her a calloused and grimy hand. “Well, that idiot Pinky still hasn’t come back, and the lady below has been left on her own for too long; I think we’d best make sure she’s safe and sound, try an’ get some food into that belly of hers.”  

She accepts the hand with a small smile and rises, following him down the hill and back to the cave. “You know her? Inquisitor Lavellan.”

Cinaed wrinkles his nose, rockets a bit of snot out of it into the bushes, looks over his shoulder and says, “Aye. From a long time ago, though. Not seen any indication so far that she remembers who I am. Probably for the best.” He decides, large fingers loosening the sword belt from his waist and doffing it by the dying fire inside the entrance.

“It must be hard for you to see her like this. I’ve the fortune of never knowing her before this… it’s always harder to see someone in pain if you know them.” Merrill whispers, her eyes searching the shadows in the back of the cave. Cinaed knows she has nothing to fear; El’una is asleep. There is no sound coming from that part of the cavern.

“Nay.” Cinaed rumbles, glancing from the glowing coals to Merrill expectantly. She seems to catch his meaning and a quick blast of flame sets the fire roaring anew as Cinaed tosses some dry wood onto it. “If I know anythin’ about that one, it’s that she may be slight, but she’s got the spirit of an asp - to date, she’s the only person I ever met with the stones to try an’ talk me out of wallopin’ some idiot at a tavern. Got between me an’ the idiot and all.” He stokes the fire and begins preparing a thin broth with a blackened kettle and a waterskin. “She ain’t stuck like this forever.”

“You seem oddly grateful.” Merril says, smiling faintly, flames dancing in her wide eyes. “But what of the idiot?”

“Which one?” He snorts. “I never said she did it only once.” He smiles when he recalls her face; younger, marked with the blood-writing of her people, her nose scrunched and her brow furrowed as she grasps his arm with one hand and stared down an idiot. ‘ _You don’t want to do this_.’ She’d warned him, and somehow such sincerity was delivered by the woman almost a third smaller than he, that the idiot wordlessly turned and left. “Most of ‘em got the picture and fucked off proper. One of ‘em didn’t though.”

“Pinky.” Merrill deduces.

“Aye. Can’t get rid of the runty freak. Somehow winds up everywhere I go.”

“El’una responsible for that too?”

“Oh aye; she was constantly between the two of us at the tavern, usually tryin’ to convince Pinky to get lost an’ go somewhere else because I was seriously considering throwin’ ‘im through a fuckin’ wall. Fucking tal-vashoth has nothin’ better to do with his useless life. I reckon he’s made it his purpose to follow me around an’ push me till I actually do put him out of his misery.”

“I’m sure if you really wanted him gone you would have gotten rid of him somehow.” Merrill says, a small smile playing around her lips. “I didn’t even think he was Qunari when we first met; he is awfully small for his kind, isn’t he?”

“Awfully.” Cinaed agrees. “Fucker never has seen fit to tell me why he left the Qun, but by my reckoning it’s a miracle he even made it to adulthood among their lot. Not sure what use they found for him, but it sure as shit weren’t holdin’ a sword: Hence ‘ _Pinky_ ,’ get it? He’s no larger than a proper Qunari’s little finger.” He laughs at his own cleverness. “Little bastard is cunning though, I’ll give him that: Knows exactly how to fuck with people and then slither away as shit goes to fuck all around him.”

Merrill sighs and stares into the flames as Cinaed stirs the broth. “Hopefully that cunning is enough to convince our friend to come.”

Cinaed grunts in agreeance. “Friend, you say. An odd word; by the way your other friend’s face twisted and blanched when you mentioned his name, I thought he might burst a vein.” It’s true; Merrill had suggested finding the man in the first place, claiming he was El’una’s best bet at triumphing over her hysteria - he was a healer, after all, and a former circle mage: He would have more experience with these things than she. Without a second thought, the white-haired elf shut her down, absolutely forbidding it.

He changed his mind after about three hours of ceaseless cursing and convulsing from the hapless woman they had carried up from the water’s edge.

“Fenris and Anders… they have a complicated history.” She says, dropping her voice even lower as if either one might randomly hear her and rebuke her. “They’re not exactly what one might call close. Or even jovial. Or tolerant of each other.”

Cinaed feels himself smirk in understanding. “Perhaps one of ‘em just needs to cut the crap and chuck the other one through a wall.” He ladles some broth into a road-worn travel dish and digs in his pack for a wooden spoon, blowing carefully on the steaming liquid as he picks his way carefully over the rocky ground towards the back of the cave, the bowl balanced daintily on meaty fingers. “My dark little lady,” He calls quietly, catching sight of the unmoving heap of fabric and hair on the ground: Her shoulders rise and fall steadily, indicating that she is no worse for wear, but definitely sleeping. He takes a seat on a sizeable rock nearby and sets the dish next to him. He calls her name again and gently nudges her foot with his own.

A pointed ear, protruding from a mass of matted hair, twitches.

“Up ya get, wee one.” He grunts.

The ear twitches again and she stirs, slowly drawing herself up to a sitting position, her back to him.

“Cinaed?” She whispers in a parched voice. “Truly?”

“Never thought I’d see you again either.” He tells her, feeling the corner of his mouth pull into a crooked smile. “That Nightingale of yours is something else indeed.”

“You managed to avoid an entire Inquisition… I’m surprised she found you at all.” She notes, and she turns on her knees, negotiating around the binding around her ankle that holds her fast. “Why are you here?” She asks, and he feels the smile slide from his face at proper sight of her. “I wish you weren’t here. I always wanted you to believe that I am strong for someone my size.”

The El’una Lavellan he had known some six years earlier was a colourful and attractive woman with observant eyes and an easy smile. This woman is someone else entirely; her skin is dull and sallow. Her eyes are dim and distant, rimmed with dark shadows and almost painfully bloodshot. Her thin lips are blanched nearly white and he can make out the redness of wet blood left where they press together on the inside of her mouth.

“‘Course you’re strong for your size.” Cinaed agrees, patting the rock next to him patiently. “Not gonna stay that way if you don’t eat something, though.”

“Pinky would say you’re only being nice to me in the hope of fucking me.” El’una says dryly, not moving from her place on the ground. She peers up at Cinaed with watery eyes. “He’d say men like you aren’t nice for no reason - that you only know murder and blood and death for the highest bidder.”

“Men like me _aren’t_ nice for no reason.” Cinaed agrees. “But a smart woman wouldn’t believe three quarters of the shit that falls out of that fuckwit’s mouth anyway: Best try and ignore it and come sit.”

“Not sure that I should…” She mutters, curling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. “I’ve done something… I’ve done something terrible…”

“Aye. Them’s the same words I said to meself the morning after a fifteen hour sitting at the pub in Kassel last month.” He heaves a sigh for effect. “But, I still dragged me ass up outta the mud come morn and managed to find a spot of breakfast. No excuses.” He says, using his brigand-voice now.

“This is the longest I’ve seen her so lucid…” Merrill says, coming up behind him. “Don’t suppose you know why?”

The mountainous man shrugs, filling the cavern with the sound of creaking leather. “Nay. If I was hard-pressed to hazard a guess though, I might think it’s either because she knows I’m not a stranger to her, or because I’ve kept the conversation away from whatever put her in this state to begin with. Besides, have ya any idea what this one’s been through? More like than not, she’s finally just cracked under the fuckin’ strain.” He waves her away impatiently. “Best keep your distance for now: Shoo. Go on, get.”

“Think she’s right about you, though - murderer or not, you’re very kind.” Merrill tells him as she stalks out of the cave.

He smiles to himself as El’una finally creeps over and sits next to him, immediately collapsing against him and burying her face in his chest. He curls a massive arm around her and strokes the dying elf’s hair as she weeps softly into him.

“Am I to be like this forever? The ship… he was there, and the… the demon. It was there, and -”

“No.” He interjects, for he may be nearly twice her age, with bones like steel and a temper like a storm, but even an old and violent man like himself found his spirit touched by this peculiar creature. Even the most hardened cutthroat can’t just walk away from something like that. “We don’t talk about it right now. We don’t even think about it - we just eat, tend your wounds and see what comes next aye, my dark lady?” She does not sit up, and eventually, he pushes her away a little and tilts her head up with his fingers on her chin. “Remember that talk we had many a year ago, in that shitty tavern in Denerim? We spoke of life and death and gods and which ones can’t be real, and which ones we hoped were real just so we could smack ‘em in the gob if given the chance. We near drowned ourselves in ale and you told me that you don’t feel like you fit in properly in this world; that you felt alone in your convictions and dreams and beliefs. Did that stop you then?”

Her only answer is a sad little moan.

“It didn’t, did it? So why let it stop ya now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt bad writing this. Seriously. Absolutely terrible. 
> 
> How do you apologize to someone who doesn't even exist?
> 
> Also, once upon a time I was a bartender and there was this insane dude who was a regular for a short time and I only knew him for a month until he said he was moving to South America or something and that he'd never see me again, and I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure the guy had a pretty shady history, but at the same time, he was one of the most interesting people I've ever had the pleasure of drinking and conversing with. 
> 
> He also threatened to throw another patron of the pub through the wall on a regular basis, and there were a few times where I had to REALLY talk him out of it (despite the incessant egging-on of the patron at risk, who basically lives to be a smarmy shithead.) 
> 
> Some people are just hard to ever completely forget I think.


	24. Chapter 24

“That tattooed fucker - Fenris I think he said his name is - he doesn’t like you, hey?”

Anders chews the inside of his cheek as the stunted qunari ahead of him picks through the bushes and trees along the coast. “Not without reason.” He admits curtly, not particularly wanting to delve into details with this beast, who right off the bat struck him as someone as slick as a serpent coated in oil.

“No secret though, I suppose.” The qunari mentions. “He’s got it out for most mages.”

“You sound well acquainted enough with Fenris to know all this - why bother asking me?” Anders asks, a bit irritated at this point: To have spent as much time on the run as he had, to have done the things necessary to survive up until this point, and of all things, to get plucked into a side street of a rural Tevinter hamlet by a freakishly small qunari and subsequently told that he would be leaving right this second to aid the dying Inquisitor… well… anyone would be slightly annoyed, right? Speaking of which…

“You got your way: Can I please have my pack now?” He implores, noting the shaking in his hands when his guide merely glances over his shoulder at him and smiles knavishly, hitching the threadbare strap of the pack further up on his shoulder as he does so.

“And make you bear the burden of carrying such a heavily laden sack through the wild yourself? Perish the thought, friend: Let the big, strong qunari handle it.”

Anders scowls at the man’s back. “You’re a real prick, anyone ever told you that?”

“You have no idea.” The qunari chuckles, parting a gap in the sodden branches that stand in their way and gesturing Anders forward with a hand. When Anders does not move forward for fear of exposing his back to this stranger, he sighs and mutters, “Fuck sake.” Before moving through the gap himself, holding onto the branches just long enough so that they twang back and smack Anders wetly in the face when he finally takes a step forward.

“Have I done something to offend you?” Anders demands, angrily brushing leaves and rain from his beard and shoulders as he catches up with the qunari.

“Naw.”

“Well then - “

“Right. Time to listen now: This thing we’re about to go through; an eluvian, you ever heard of one?” The qunari interjects, ignoring Anders completely.

“I once knew someone who had one.” He answers stonily.

“That someone is likely one ‘n’ the same: Merrill, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Anders frowns. “But when I knew her she only ever had one. I mean… I’ve known her up until… up until recently but she never made any mention of having gotten the first one to work properly, let alone getting her hands on another one.”

“Properly is a broad term that could mean a lot of things.” The qunari remarks. “I’d not say it’s a term that applies to either of these bewitched mirrors. But.” He says, sighing and turning towards a rocky outcropping. “Haven’t the time to go by sea, so by the fucking mirrors it is.”

“I’m not sure if that’s the wisest idea.” Anders says, figuratively digging his heels in due to the familiar stirring within him.

“What, concerned about your little spirit problem?” The qunari remarks, setting off towards the outcropping, seemingly uninterested if Anders follows or not. “Your friend Fenris was actually the one to assure Merrill that it would not be an issue. Wonder how he learned that, hey? Fuckin’ odd, am I right?” He laughs as he walks, and finally Anders rolls his eyes and catches up again.

“Remind me again; why exactly is it my duty to aid the Inquisitor?” He asks breathlessly. “If it’s a simple matter of lyrium overdose, all that can be done is make sure she doesn’t die of poisoning. I’m sure between you, Merrill and Fenris you could manage at least that.”

“I’m told that something else is afoot.” The qunari says, ducking into the narrow corridor between the rocks and shifting Anders’ pack from his shoulder and above his head so it doesn’t scrape too badly. “Something that someone with your expertise may be able to sort out.”

“Yes, but why?” Anders demands exasperatedly.

“Got a world to save again, doesn’t she? Or… at least some domestic to solve with her elf-lover. Something to that effect. Fuck, what do you want from me? I’m just an aimless drifter that got dragged into this bullshit.” He dodges around a few more narrow corners and emerges into a not entirely roomy opening in the crevasse. Nestled into the stone is an eluvian; as promised.

It’s covered by a thin sheen of dust, and scraps of rock lay heaped at its base. A closer glance betrays flat, chisel-shaped marks in the stone around it, as if the clearing they stand in had been painstakingly stripped away by hand.

He sees his bedraggled reflection shift awkwardly in the mirror; it has been some time since he sought to gaze upon his own face. He does not like what he sees, and so quickly turns away, disguising the motion as an attempt to pluck another leaf out of his hair.

“I know what it’s like to be on the run. Hunted.” The qunari says suddenly, standing before the mirror and gazing at it intently as he considers it. “Scraggy, pathetic. _Unbathed_.” He stoops and picks up a stone from the floor, tossing it in the air before hucking it squarely at the dusty surface of the eluvian. Anders is about to cry out in shock, but the stone bounces harmlessly away and the qunari looks at him fiendishly. “Take more than a rock to bust this fucking thing.” He mentions. “My name is Pinky.”

“Anders.” He finally brings himself to say, and he gets the distinct feeling the strange qunari is taking stock of him in the dim light.

“Common knowledge that these damn things all have unique keys dependent on ownership.” Pinky says, turning back to the mirror, drawing himself up and clearly saying, “ _Marian Hawke of Kirkwall wears silky red underthings_.”

Anders nearly chokes. “What?! -” He splutters in disbelief, but is promptly cut off by a wave of light and a viscous crackling. Another part of him turns in rapt attention: The eluvian has most certainly awoken.

“I never would have guessed either.” Pinky smirks, casting Anders one final glance before slinking through the eluvian. “That’s the point.”

* * *

 

The walk through the middle-place that appears to lie between the two mirrors is uncomfortable to say the least: It is not quite the Fade, this place, but also it is not quite the world either. It’s some strange mosaic frozen in time between the two, and it sets himself more on edge than Justice.

 _You do not need me here_ , the spirit promises him as he glances around the misty ephemera nervously. _There is no danger here and never has been._

“Then why do I feel like there is?” Anders snaps back, a bit impatiently.

“Sorry, what?” Pinky asks, thinking the question had been directed at him.

“Nothing… nothing…” Anders says quietly, drawing a deep breath and steeling his rattled nerves: Justice may say that this place is safe, but the fact that it seems to be caught somewhere between the Fade and the living world makes his skin itch uncomfortably; he thinks that sometimes the spirit forgets that he is in fact, a living person.

“I had an imaginary friend once too.” Pinky says distantly, glancing around the seemingly unending rows of mirrors.

“Fuck off.”

“You’re awfully snippy. I can see why Fenris finds little joy in seeing you again. You know - “

The hairs on Anders’ arms and neck stand up; just as they had before the eluvian had opened minutes earlier. “Shut up!” He hisses, casting around the serene maze. “Something is wrong. Someone is coming. Where is the one we need?”

Pinky’s hazel eyes widen at these words, and he cringes a little when a mirror some hundred yards away snaps to life.

“Go!” Anders snarls, following the qunari’s awkward and rabbit-like scamper towards a mirror that has a pile of random objects left at its base.

“ _Marianhawkeofkirkwallwearsilkyredunderthings!_ ” Pinky blabs quietly at the dog-eared eluvian, and Anders is drawing his staff as the mirror tries desperately to crackle to life in the time it takes for a number of figures to emerge from the distant eluvian.

“Slow down!” He hisses through clenched teeth.

“ _M-_ ” Is all that Pinky is able to get out.

With a roar, Anders casts a barrier, only taking a second to admire how strange it looks in this place - all shimmering and prismatic. “ _Marian Hawke of Kirkwall Wears Silky Red Underthings!_ ” He exclaims quietly, but very, very clearly.

It does the trick, and as the attention of the far-off figures flies to them, the eluvian sputters to life, and its still surface glows bright blue.

“Off we go, then!” Pinky cackles, tumbling backwards into the light.

* * *

 

_Those who pursued us; they belonged to the one who seeks the elvhen woman. We were fortunate to make our escape when we did._

_And how might you know all of this?_ Anders wonders accusingly at himself.

 _Stirrings within the Fade._ Justice answers simply.

“No shit.” Anders mumbles, “So much for a place that has never been dangerous.” He jabs, wincing as he stands and surveys his bloody and scraped knees. They appear to have emerged into a dark, wet cave. A small fire glows slightly towards the entrance. In the blue light of the eluvian, he is able to make out the form of Pinky, scrabbling around for footing to his left. To his right -

“LET ME GO! I must pass through the mirror - please!!”

Squaring to face the sudden volume, he holds his staff ready, though his own mind has drawn a very rapid blank without any warning: His hands seem to move of their own accord and blue sparks dance across his skin.

“What is this?” He demands in a voice that is not his own.

Justice’s call to be answered thrums in time to his own heartbeat, and the hysterical woman seems to take pause. Distantly, Anders hopes that Pinky has seen fit to skitter away, and doesn’t doubt that he has.

“ _But only on Tuesdays!_ ” An echoing voice from the far end of the cavern calls, confirming Anders’ hope while simultaneously closing the gate the mirror provides.

“You…” The woman hisses, eyes no longer belaying desperation, but malice instead. “ _What are you?_ ” She grumbles, rapt and intent as she paws across the sharp ground between them.

“She is not merely sick!” Justice shouts at the collection of figures that have congregated at the mouth of the cave. “She is cursed!”

“Cursed!” She repeats, pounding a fist into the stone. “What would you know of curses, _shem?_ Spirit? Demon? I don’t even know what to call you!” She opens her mouth and is about to speak again when her eyes roll back in her skull and she appears to be taken by some sturdy wall of exhaustion that blessedly drops her, unconscious back to the ground.

Merrill looks at him helplessly; she looks as if she may cry. Pinky is nowhere to be seen, the hulking older fellow he spotted at the end of the cave earlier is rapidly closing the distance between himself and the assuaged elf on the ground, and Fenris is hanging back near the mouth of the cave, his arms crossed, casting a burning glare in his direction.

Medical aid is what they asked for, so medical aid would be what they received. With that in mind, he sets his staff against the wall and carefully makes his way over to the elf.

“She’s been eating?” He asks Merrill, crouching down next to the Inquisitor and pushing aside a lock of matted hair with a finger to better see her face and ensure she’s quite unconscious: Having an unhinged mage lunge at him is the last thing he wants to add to the list of nonsense that’s happened to him already today.

“A little. Cinaed is the only one she seems tolerant to for any stretch of time.” Merrill explains, wringing her hands and staring pityingly at the ill mage. “He’s fed her a time or two.”

Anders looks up at the broad man; the one who is standing right next to the elven woman’s head as though ready to pull Anders’ arms off if he harms her or causes her pain in any way. “Her lover then?” He inquires, flipping aside another strand of hair and resting his fingers on the pulse-points of her neck: Elevated pulse, but not so much that she’s in immediate danger.

“Her bodyguard.” The man snaps gruffly. “Or something like. What’s it to ya?”

“Does she say anything to you when she’s awake? Anything lucid that might indicate she’s no longer in the grips of whatever ails her?”

“She knows who I am when… whatever it is breaks. She doesn’t wanna be like this, if that’s what you’re askin’.” Cinaed mentions, his brow lowering in an even fiercer stare than it had been already.

“No one wants to be like this.” Anders mutters, leaning even closer to the Inquisitor and gently pushing her mouth open with a finger on her chin. He lowers his face to hers and inhales the scent of her breath for a moment before rocking back on his knees. “Lyrium overdose for certain; her breath smells sweet, her heart races, and her skin is ashen.” He draws back one of her eyelids and ignites a small flame in the air between them, waiting to see how much time passes before her pupil dilates. “She is in a state of mental shock.” He concludes. “Lyrium overdose works differently for mages than it does templars. With the latter, the overabundance of lyrium in their system more or less blocks out the brain’s simplest of functions; speech, mental cognizance - breathing. More oft than not you end up with a stupefied corpse on your hands. Mages though…”

He trails off and turns her with care onto her side so that she doesn’t choke on her sick in the event that she vomits.

“With mages, an overindulgence of lyrium leads to an opposite effect; a heightened connection to the Fade. It can be useful for keeping focus and pulling off larger, more demanding spells, but I can’t see what huge spell she might have been trying to pull off on a boat in the middle of the sea.”

“She blew the boat into scraps!” Fenris cuts in angrily; he has moved from the mouth of the cave and now stands at the perimeter of light cast by the torch nearby.

Anders surveys the former slave coolly; he always imagined he’d be afraid if he ever encountered Fenris again after the events at Kirkwall. And yet, he finds himself devoid of such fear - he supposes idly that massive tears in the veil and the return of an ancient magister really puts things like fear in perspective.

“Yes.” Anders agrees patiently. “Though it seems counterproductive to get onto a boat with the eventual goal of coordinating with comrades on the other side, only to intentionally blow the boat up half way, don’t you think?” He turns back to the elven woman, ignoring the hateful growl that Fenris utters. “The spell was a byproduct; she had been taking the lyrium for another reason.” His eyes land on a patch of skin he can see, mostly covered by hair and fabric. He moves them aside to glimpse her left hand, curled against her chest. Carefully, he takes it in his own hands and turns it in the light, examining the decayed limb as best he can. “Blood magic.” He declares, looking over his shoulder at Merrill. “She’s recently used blood magic.”

When Merrill confirms his suspicion with a quick nod, he returns his attention to the patient, laying the hand down and running his hands gently over her clothed form.

“I’m not up to anything funny.” He assures Cinaed when he hears the man take a step towards him. “If I’m correct, based on the state of her left arm, she shed her own blood rather than the blood of another; I need to ensure those wounds aren’t infected.”

“For someone who always preached to despise blood magic, you certainly are well-learned in the subject.” Fenris points out.

“Have you any idea how many I helped who had either attempted to self let, or had been made victim of blood magic? What was I to do, Fenris? Turn them away? Let them bleed out on the street?” Anders asks quietly. “Might as well start adding adulterers, bandits, and corrupt politicians to the list of people I refuse to help. If I keep doing that - soon I would be without purpose all together.” His probing hand pauses as it reaches the softness below her rib cage on the right; under the layers of fabric, he can make out the feeling of a patch of dressing: He does not lift her shirt to peel it up - despite having been pulled out of the sea, the area around the dressing is dry, so it is not leaking: Chances are she had magical assistance in healing the wound.

“Whatever.” Fenris snaps, now pacing like a caged beast. “I care little about whether she used blood magic five years ago or a week. I’m more concerned about the risk of setting an abomination into the wild.”

“Abomination?” Anders repeats, looking from Fenris to Merrill to the place Pinky is occupying a good distance away. “You didn’t even want me in the first place.” He deduces, his tone indignant. “And suppose she is? You’d have Justice strike her down where she stands?” He rises to his feet and takes a step towards Fenris; one that is mirrored in the opposite direction by his former companion. “A clever ploy, Fenris; keep your hands free of the former Inquisitor’s blood, while a mad abomination is painted responsible for her tragic death.”

“It’s not that simple.” Fenris counters. “But I wouldn’t expect the likes of you to understand.”

“Gentlemen please.” Pinky interjects. “You can take your petty squabble outside after this poor woman has been rendered a clean bill of health - need I remind you that we are on a tight timeline?” He glances pointedly at Fenris, his eyes veiling words unspoken.

“And what fresh hell is that supposed to mean?” Anders frowns.

“Our friend Fenris is expected elsewhere. He’s a busy man.” Pinky snaps.

“Listen, you loose-tongued fool - “ Fenris begins.

“Let that be enough.” Pinky continues over Fenris and gestures towards the Inquisitor. “She’s required elsewhere too. So Anders; if you wouldn’t mind… laying hands on, or whatever it is you need to do to get her mind back, it would be appreciated.” He pauses for a moment, rests his hands on his hips and then says, “Besides. She’s rather comely, isn’t she? Haven’t seen her in years; I like the bare faced look. I’d like spend some quality time catching up.”

“I will bend your fuckin’ knees backwards at the joint till your caps pop out the other side.” Cinaed promises Pinky with a threatening snarl. “I’ll not see the likes of you faffing after her like a lost pup!”

Pinky chuckles loudly. “You won’t, you miserable old fuck.”

As the pair continue to exchange threats and insults, Anders looks imploringly to Merrill, silently asking her if this is the right course of action. Her only answer is a nearly undetectable shrug, followed by a far more confident nod.

 _And you?_ He asks Justice. _What are your thoughts?_

 _Verily she needs our help._ The spirit concedes. _It would be doing whatever is left of her a disservice to walk away now._

_Whatever is left?_

_There are remnants in the very air around her of some great darkness that touched her - if only briefly. She triumphed over the darkness, but in doing so her own curse seems to have backfired and latched onto the stained remnants of whatever sought to harm her; they cling to her and the walls of this place like pitch. There is no knowing how deeply she has been burned._

_Unless we find her._ Anders decides solemnly; he isn’t overly thrilled about the direction this is all taking him in.

_As in waking she is in slumber: The Fade._

_Knew you were going to say that._

_Of course you did. I am you._

_Ugh._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me over a month to write and I am still wholly unsatisfied with it, but... I'll come back to it someday.
> 
> In the meantime, it's time for the story to progress.


	25. Chapter 25

She cries softly, her arms wrapped around her knees and her her head buried in them as she weeps alone in the plain, unending vastness of the Fade - a lost child, alone and at wit’s end.

She remembers the spirit of Envy; its cruelness and deceit. She remembers it taking the shape of Solas, and she remembers it following her into waking. Then; uttered words and bright light, crushing pressure and black cold. After that, things are hazy, and she moans into her arms as she tries to connect the fractured threads of things that are real, things that can’t be real, and things that she is completely unsure of.

Cinaed? A familiar face, a dear and old friend. But why would he be with her now? Could he be little more than a trick of the mind? An attempt at her brain to placate itself by recalling strong memories of happier times?

Of course then there was the strange elf whose skin glowed and sang whenever he drew near to her. Another figment perhaps? A spirit?

What did it matter anyway? She is once again in the Fade; a desolate and nondescript place free of any landmark or structure: Just emptiness as far as the eye could see: A prison.

Unable to detract from her beleaguered confusion, El’una is oblivious to the fog that has begun to encroach on the empty space around her, rolling, thick and golden. As she cries and resigns herself to whatever her fate may hold for her, the fog curls around her compact form and rises over her head to envelope her, tendrils of it falling over her hair and down her shoulders like the consoling hand of a lover. It sways in the air around her like afternoon sunbeams, and very much leaves her to cry until she is no longer able.

“You will survive this too.”

El’una’s head snaps up and she casts around, realizing the haze that has settled all around her. Without a second thought she scrambles to her feet, a blade in her hand that was not there before. She holds it ready before her, though it is difficult to know how best to protect her back when there is nothing within sight to put it towards.

“Who’s there? Who speaks?” She demands, turning in a careful circle, searching for a form in the fog, but seeing none. She sniffles and blinks the remnants of tears from her eyes; she’s had just about enough of demons and spirits and dreams and bullshit. She leaps back with a cry, but maintains her grip on the blade when two small suns burst inexplicably into life before her. Adjusting her grip, she takes a defensive stance. “Another spirit that desires something I have, is it?” She hisses, electricity crackling warningly down the steel blade in her hands.

“Who would want what _you_ have?” The same voice that had spoken originally says; it seems to be sourced from the strange orbs of light that have begun lazily orbiting each other. “Not to bring offense, but really: You possess less valor then most, you aren’t overly abundant in either wisdom or temperance, and while you are rather cunning, you are no paragon of intelligence.”

Did the spirit just insult her?

“That is to say; no, I am not here to trick you or possess you or torment you any further than you’ve already been tormented: I am here to set you right.”

Frowning, El’una shakes her head, but does not lower the sword. “Set me right?” She repeats disdainfully. “You’ll have to forgive my disinclination to believe you - I’ve not had the best luck with spirits of late.”

The orbs of light seem to collapse on themselves slightly and an ageless sigh fills the air.

“It’s the shape, isn’t it? The other one didn’t like it either.” The vast spirit says, and before El’una can inquire about the identity of this ‘ _other one_ ’, the small stars shudder rapidly, becoming blurs of light so bright that El’una is forced to shield her eyes with the back of her arm. When the light dims, El’una lowers her arm and blinks her eyes open. What stands before her, surrounded by richly coloured nebulas and tiny flecks of starlight reminds her of another spirit she had seen a long, long time ago.

“Justinia?” She manages dumbly, knowing already that the golden figure before her is not the golden vision of The Divine she had encountered in the Fade so many years previous.

“Alas, a familiar face would likely put your mind at some ease, but it falls to me to inform you that Fidelity sacrificed itself in its effort to save you from the Nightmare: It is no longer.” The golden spirit tells El’una, hair like streaks of sunlight curling placidly in the air around it. “Fidelity was a young spirit, drawn to the loyalty and love of the woman who died in the Fade to set you free: Fidelity chose to finish what Justinia started, and thus, became her to those who knew her in life.”

It had happened so many years ago, but the spirit’s words and confirmation of Justinia’s fate still settle heavily upon El’una’s heart.

“A sad fate indeed, for a spirit so righteous.” The golden woman agrees with El’una’s unspoken sorrow. “Fidelity had promise; given enough time, it might have become like me.”

“And what, precisely are you?” El’una inquires, finally lowering the sword, but not loosening her grip on it any.

“Hope.” The golden vision tells her, star-like eyes blinking at her from a non-descript face. Points of light dance from her fingertips as she lights from her place and paces around El’una, the clouds of stars and gasses around her swirling around her knees like a cloak.

“Impossible.” El’una retorts immediately. “There hasn’t been a spirit of Hope in uncountable ages.”

“At least not that anyone has seen.” The spirit says in response. “What interest do you think a world like yours has to those like myself?” A translucent arm rises and flicks fingers into the golden air around it, sending a cluster of glittering stars into their surroundings. “One such as myself manifests in your world without even trying; we do not have to find physical means to pass through the Veil - we _are_.” It pauses and squares itself up to El’una, its mane of starlight swaying to a rest around its waist. “Yet the living seem to cling desperately to what hopelessness they can find; even when given a choice - you people thrive in despair and pity and misery. There is no room in your world for spirits of my kind, so we stopped coming: The last one foolish enough to walk among you so many ages ago was burned alive for what she dared to bring to your people.”

This spirit couldn’t possibly mean… “Andraste?” El’una voices the suspicion incredulously.

“A spirit who dreamed beyond the fall of Arlathan that perhaps things were indeed different.” The spirit informs her, fingers playing through a scarlet cloud. “Persecuted, blamed, and ultimately betrayed by those whom she had attempted to liberate.” Its head tilts. “She was good friends with your Wolf, you know. She thought he was right and just in his actions - look where they got her.”

“Andraste is still a beacon of hope for thousands, hundreds of years later.” El’una points out quietly.

“Is it hardly surprising that those like me choose to avoid a world where serving our purpose requires martyrdom?” The spirit asks. “No one likes to die. Not even spirits.”

“Then why proclaim to have my interests at heart?” El’una wonders. “You made mention of setting me right: What’s your stake in what awaits me in Waking?”

The spirit - El’una is still not willing to call it Hope - sighs again and its eyes twinkle briefly.

“I’d not see that Wolf of yours make another massive cockup of the world again. _Again_.” It repeats. “I have been around for far, far longer than either of you: I have seen empires rise, fall, rebel, collapse, rise up again, collapse again, get washed away by the sea, and eventually fade into obscurity and myth: There is an order to things; such is life. Yet your Wolf seems ever-pressed to flout that order - it is becoming maudlin.”

Bristling, El’una takes a step forward, “Maudlin or not, I’ll have you know I’m doing all that can be done to - “

“Stop him, yes, I’m aware.” The spirit interjects, flares of light arcing over its form. “Though as it stands you’ll be dead within the month, and are currently incomprehensibly mad in a cave somewhere in Seheron. Yes, I can see you’re making great strides in your effort.” It visibly quells, dimming slightly and no longer sparking as aggressively. “That isn’t to say that you aren’t without aim, nor unworthy of praise: I have observed you for a long time, El’una: You possess a rare and marvelous spirit.”

Setting aside the discomfort she feels at the familiar words, El’una asks, “What do you mean by observed?”

“Who do you think showed you the cracks?” The spirit asks, idly twirling on the spot and glancing over its shoulder at El’una. “The ancient words, and the secret places? I already told you that I won’t see the Dread Wolf pull this world apart at the seams again - you have always been the person best equipped to thwart him.”

Something occurs to El’una then, and it makes her angry.

“Cracks and words?” She snarls, bringing herself face to face with the spirit’s visage: It’s hot, white eyes burn into her own at this proximity, and she forces herself to keep them open as her skin tingles unpleasantly. “For all these mysteries you’ve supposedly unveiled to me, it didn’t occur to you to heal me?”

“I am not that kind of spirit.” The being says calmly. “I do not give life - I give hope; which is precisely what you received by my urging.”

If the spirit had any clothing, El’una would be gripping it in an effort to drag it closer to her. Instead, she holds her ground and says, “Then find me a spirit who can.”

The spirit raises no hands, but El’una finds herself being gently pushed away by an unseen force until she is back where she had started originally.

“Envy would have helped you with that, though you saw fit to destroy it. It is broken at the bottom of a sea: The shards of Humility.” The golden woman says with a coolness that has not yet been heard. “Be mindful of what you wish for this late in the game, El’una - there are many, many spirits who would oblige you, but I’m afraid their price is something you are unwilling to pay, and your fire burns too strongly to keep them pure.”

El’una snorts and shakes her head, unable to believe what she is hearing: Here she stands, supposedly having an encounter with a spirit that has been rumoured extinct for thousands of years, and rather than being the all-powerful and inspiring creature she imagined it would be, instead it is tearing down her walls and denying her everything.

“Humility?” She says, thinking back to the halcyon figure of crystalline innocence by a creek in a dream. “What I encountered on that ship was _not_ Humility.”

“I never said it was.” The spirit parries. “It _was_ Humility until it became fixated on you, your skill, your deep understanding of things that most cannot fathom. And then it became twisted by those things: It dreamt to become you, for you did not get to where you are in life by being humble.”

A wordless huff falls from El’una’s lips as she struggles to come to grips with what this spirit is telling her. “I always thought a spirit of Hope would be more… hopeful.” She says eventually, unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice.

“And Pride?” The spirit asks, the rhetoric in its voice plain. “Was Pride as you thought it would be?” When El’una doesn’t answer it says, “I didn’t think so: You people mean well, but there are things so beyond the realm of your understanding that it would make your little heads explode. You though - you possess a hopefulness and a drive that this world is in desperate need of: Shame your time is coming to an end.”

“Valid point.” El’una says. “Given your involvement in my affairs without my knowledge, I’m interested to see what the point of all of it was if I’m merely to wind up a cold corpse in the ground.”

“Have you asked yourself that question?” The spirit asks her. “Why continue with the fervour you do, despite the fact that you are very aware of your eventual fate? Why try to save a world that you will not live to see or enjoy? You will never find love, nor bear children, nor age in happiness and well-earned complacency: What’s in it for you, El’una Lavellan?” It stares at her intently, this spirit, ageless eyes burning through her as it waits for her answer.

“Because…” El’una begins slowly. “Because I have to hope that if I have a day left or a week, that I can set things right.”

“Exactly.” The spirit says, and El’una feels uncomfortably as though she has just given away something, though she is not quite sure what it is: Something that doesn’t exist yet, but is due to be collected at a later date. She is about to open her mouth to inquire about this when the spirit seems to notice something beyond El’una’s shoulder. “We find ourselves with company.”

El’una whips around to see a male form marching towards them through the golden haze: Its eyes burn blue, and for a horrifying instant she thinks that it might be Solas; her grip on the blade tightens once more and the sword is lifted in preparation for defense.

Instead of also taking a defensive stance (El’una idly wonders if this spirit has need for such a thing,) Hope whisks past her, leaving her in a cloud of nebulous haze as it strides towards the interloper.

“Justice!” It booms pleasantly, holding its arms out to the figure that  has emerged into view as if to embrace it, and embrace it does: El’una frowns at the sight of the image of the blue-eyed mage who greets Hope like an old friend. “You appear to fare well, despite your… attachment.” The spirit mentions the last bit with a slight bit of reservation.

“I had not expected to find you here.” The being known as Justice rumbles. “You are never this easy to find.”

“Yet you always find a way to find me.” The spirit responds coquettishly. “I hadn’t expected you to be looking for this one.” Hope gestures to El’una as if she’s an eye-catching piece of furniture.

“She is needed in the Waking.” Justice says curtly. It’s strange, El’una decides; though he is called Justice, he bears the form of a wiry, underfed, unkempt mage - likely an apostate from the looks of his clothing and staff. Yet he stands with the rigidity and presence of a warrior; it is a stance she was used to seeing on men the likes of Cullen and Blackwall - not starved apostates. “You are unspoiled.” The spirit proclaims loudly, facing her and making her start a little: There is an intensity to its voice that Hope does not share. “You will accompany me back to the Waking.”

Without knowing why, she looks to Hope questioningly.

“Of course.” The spirit says, its voice warm and its eyes glimmering kindly. “You’ve nothing to fear from Justice: Do what you must.”

“I’ll be… I’ll be… sound of mind again?” She asks the blue-eyed spirit hesitantly.

“Verily.” Justice states. “You require an anchor: I will serve.” He turns to embark into the fog and El’una moves to follow.

“One more thing, El’una.” Hope calls after her. El’una pauses and turns to face the golden visage once more. “Be mindful of the Little Wolf: There is duplicity in his heart.”

El’una nods and turns away, following after Justice, silently pledging to herself upon waking that she will make a rug out of every wolf she encounters till the end of her days.


	26. Chapter 26

She awakens with a deep gasp of air, as if only just now surfacing from the churning black waves she had fallen into when the ship exploded. A hand comes up to grip her head, twining into salt-matted hair as she does this, and her eyelids crush together repeatedly as she struggles to get her bearings for the first time in what feels like an age.

She feels eyes all over her as she presses her blackened and swollen palms to the floor and pushes herself to her feet. Making to take a step forward, a chorus of voices simultaneously cry out, but she heeds them too late and is dragged to the ground roughly by something wrapped around her ankle: A lead? She wonders blearily, turning on the hip that she knows will boast a good bruise. Indeed a thin leather strap is fastened around the base of her leg, holding her fast to a large stone nearby. Questioningly, she looks around her, her eyes landing on the first face that is visible to her in the dim light of this place: The weathered visage of an old, but familiar man: Contemptuous and grizzled as he has been in memory, he frowns at her now as if she had just insulted him, though the crooked twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays his true feelings at the sight of her.

“Cinaed.” She grates out in a parched voice, swinging her knees around her and rising to her feet again, this time negotiating her bonds with care.

“Aye.” The aged cutpurse grins, unsheathing the battered longsword at his hip and freeing El’una from the boulder with a decisive downwards stroke.

Silently her feet light from her place and she embraces her friend with a fervour that suggests she is completely uncaring of those around her; she is. As the embrace is returned and the familiar scent of old leather, pitch, and stale booze fills her nose, there is the sound of another weapon being drawn nearby. Cinaed’s left arm remains wrapped protectively around her, but she feels his right arm lift his own blade in the direction of the sound.

“Come near her with that obnoxious fuckin’ thing and I’ll have your fuckin’ head, elf.” Cinaed’s voice rumbles, the dangerous vibration rooted deep within his chest where El’una’s ear is pressed.

“Cinaed doesn’t see it as a satisfying day unless he’s threatened at least three people with beheading.” Another familiar voice scoffs from a distance.

“Shut the fuck up, Pinky; you’re next, you malformed idiot.”

Ah. Of course Pinky would still doggedly follow Cinaed everywhere he goes in an effort to drive him mad.

“How do we know she’s unspoiled?” A deeply agitated voice demands - El’una assumes it belongs to the person who drew their weapon. “This could be nothing more than another window of calm before she falls back under the spell that ensnares her! And you set her free!” The angry voice rings around the walls around them, and much to her dislike, El’una feels very much invisible; as though her fate is being decided for her by people who are uncaring of her presence. She struggles momentarily against the protective grip Cinaed has on her, and when it loosens after some degree of stubbornness, she pushes away from his barrel chest to face the aggressor.

“I am quite present, I’ll have you know.” She says, her voice scraping against her ravaged throat; is this from her illness or from something else entirely? Screaming perhaps? “Cinaed is right; that sword is fucking ridiculous - I’d speak to the person wielding it before they try and murder me with it.” She gestures weakly at the ornate greatsword clutched in the hands of the elf facing her, exhausted, starved, and trying with all that she has to project the idea that she has some modicum of control over this situation. After a moment of assessing the elf’s reaction, her mouth falls open in a silent ‘ahhh’, and she takes a hard-won step forward, willing some confidence into the sway of her hips as she does so. “This is the most sense I’ve made since you’ve met me, isn’t it?” She deduces.

“Demons can articulate themselves quite adeptly!” The elf sneers, a shock of snow-white hair falling across his nose as he bares his teeth primally. El’una feels Cinaed step up against her to move towards the elf, but she stops him with a weak hand raised to his chest; she’s thankful to have his weight behind her, truth be told: Her legs shake beneath her, and she is uncertain of how long she can bear her own weight before collapsing: How long had she been gone?

She opens her mouth to assure him that she is as El’una as El’una ever has been when a new voice interjects.

“She’s no abomination: As _demanded_ , I retrieved her from the Fade.”

El’una’s eyes move to the source of the voice, and she sees the apostate from the Fade, his head cradled in his hands and his fingers viciously rubbing at his temples as though he has a terrible headache; his voice sounds strained.

“There’s nothing wrong with her that a decent meal and a few days of good rest won’t solve.” With a final groan his hands come away from his face and El’una finds herself surprised to see that his eyes are quite plain now: For what the insubstantial torchlight gives away, ‘ _Justice_ ’ appears to be nothing more than a shabby mage in the Waking.

“You expect me to take the word of another abomination?” The elf with the greatsword demands, turning on the mage now.

“Then what was even the point of dragging me here?!” The apostate snarls back.

Dumbfounded, El’una stares on as the two men verbally lay into each other with a savagery that can only mean there was bad blood shared between them at some point.

The apostate is reaching over his shoulder for his staff when their exchange is halted by a shrill cry that reverberates off the stone walls of the cave with such insistence that silence immediately follows.

Everyone pauses.

They look round.

There is another elf; even slighter than El’una, her dark hair lays in damp tendrils around her marked face: She is Dalish - and she looks very unimpressed.

“She’s not harbouring a demon, Fenris.” She utters, small fists clenched at her sides. “Don’t ask me how I know… because I don’t know how I don’t know - she just isn’t, alright?” She rounds on the apostate now and jabs an accusatory finger at the air between them. “You. You’re better than this: For all the help I’ve given you and kept everything a secret…I didn’t even tell _Marian_.” Words seem to fail her for a moment as she grits her teeth and seems to rein in her fury slightly. “You owe me: Stop acting like a child.” She whispers darkly, and the apostate’s only reply is the slight tilt of his head, and an almost imperceptible flexing of a muscle in his jaw; his hand drifts from his staff, and the Dalish woman faces El’una now. “I imagine you’re hungry.” She says, her voice instantly dropping all of its heat.

Someone - she had been told who, but can’t remember - had caught a trio of young grouse for dinner: She eagerly tucks into the leg of one now, perched on a rock near the mouth of the cave, satiated, and warmed by the fire that crackles at her feet. Uncaring of any social decorum or the eyes watching her, she wipes a line of grease from her chin and guzzles a good deal of water from the steel tin Cinaed had given her.

“Why are you all here?” She finally demands after swishing the water around her mouth and swallowing. She meets eyes with each person around the fire: Cinaed, Pinky, Justice, and the woman - Merrill. The greatsword carrying elf known as Fenris had vanished from the cave shortly after dinner preparations had begun, seemingly unable - or unwilling - to remain present any longer.

“I didn’t come voluntarily.” Justice answers first, glaring sharply at Pinky as the stunted qunari gnaws luxuriously on a bony wing, looking utterly bored with his surroundings.

“Good thing you did though, hey?” Pinky retorts, a few flecks of meat spewing from his lips as he rotates the paltry wing in his fingers to get a better angle at it. “It must feel nice to do a good deed every now and then: I hear blowing up a religious institution can really weigh heavy on the soul.”

“Don’t.” El’una interjects before Justice can even open his mouth. She throws the stripped bone in her fingers into the fire and reaches for more from the plate nearby. “ _Anders ze’ehn Anderfend’len_.” She mentions. “I am aware of who you are now.” She searches his astonishingly human eyes with her own. “Interesting magic you worked in the Fade.” She says eventually, bringing a flake of meat to her lips. “I’ve met spirits who have taken a sentient form before, though not like this.”

“I am not a spirit.” Anders says, staring at the barely touched plate of food on his lap. “I only harbour one.”

“Justice.” El’una says, and Anders nods, looking at her from hollow eye sockets. “I can think of worse things to be burdened with, for what it’s worth.” She says, swallowing and then shooting him the tiniest of smiles. “Thank you for helping me.”

“As can I.” He says softly, returning the intimate smile; after all, he had been quite privy to El’una’s meeting with Hope in the Fade. “You’re welcome.”

“What will you do now? I’ll be well enough on the go forward, and if you don’t feel the need to stay, you must have something awaiting you.”

“I’ll leave in the morning.” Anders says. “The less time I bare my neck to Fenris I think, the better: I have other things to take care of elsewhere.”

“Best not be angling for Divine Victoria next.” Pinky sneers, snapping a thin bone with his teeth and grinning fiendishly. “I heard she pulled the head off a wyvern barehanded.”

Smirking privately at her own intimate knowledge of Cassandra’s legendary status, El’una tilts her head and looks at Pinky. “A damn trick you couldn’t pull off in your life.” She jabs. “You mean to tell me you voluntarily chose to follow this worn scrap of leather,” She gestures to Cinaed, “Right into frontline Qun territory? Seems rather unlike you, Pinky - did you finally grow a set?”

“I’ve always had more ‘set’ than you could handle, love.” Pinky grins, lewdly sucking some grease off his thumb as his eyes burn into El’una’s. “I’m just screwing with you.” He says in response to her sarcastic glare. He shrugs dramatically and says, “I don’t know: One night I was sitting in a tavern with Brainless over here and some fucking crow flew in the window and landed on the table; dropped a letter and spilled three quarters of my fucking ale with all of its flapping and carrying on.”

“You spilled two thirds of that three quarters due to your own flailing and screeching like a popped maiden.” Cinaed snarls softly, his smirk hidden behind the rim of his travelling mug. “Woulda thought a fuckin’ dragon had dropped through the ceiling.”

“Anyway.” Pinky pushes on, rolling his eyes. “Some bird with a bird sent word to Cinaed and I that we were to meet you in Seheron. Yes; specifically - by name - me and Cinaed. Exactly when and where you would be, and a rather vague, cipherous explanation as to why. Naturally Meathead here was halfway out the door without a second thought, and here we are.”

El’una flashes a thin smile at Cinaed; they would speak privately later.

“The same can be said for you?” She asks the Dalish woman amiably, veiling her distrust at the sight of her marked face and the presence of an eluvian in their midst.

“Aye.” The woman named Merrill says, prodding the grouse on her plate around a little with a finger. “Suppose it’s all Varric’s doing: He always did like to _talk_ about… things. I can’t think of any other way that Nightingale woman would have known about… about me and…” She looks nervously towards the eluvian, winces a little, and resumes poking at her dinner.

“You know Varric?” El’una asks with enthusiasm.

“We both know Varric - very well.” Anders pipes in. “Fenris too.” He tosses the untouched remnants of his meal into the fire and heaves a weary sigh, looking far too old for a man of his age.

“Yes, well… I - we knew that he joined the Inquisition. I’m not sure what he saw fit to tell you about us, but the Nightingale seems to have learned enough on her own.”

“You say that as though you’re displeased to be here.” El’una notes, staring at the elf, still not willing to part with the concept of circumstantial convenience placing her in a cave with a lone elf and an eluvian. In response to her words, Merrill straightens, looks truly shocked, and nearly loses grip on her plate.

“No!” She gasps. “You mustn’t think that… that I would - I - I mean me… _aid the Dread Wolf?_ ” She shakes her head to-and-fro, sea-waved hair falling gracelessly around her face. “The tales of our people may be wrong, da’len, but given what hangs in the balance…” The bewilderment slides from her face and is replaced with a sorrowful expression. “I was banished from my clan for clinging to this.” She looks to the eluvian set against the wall. “For doing whatever it took to reclaim what was lost - as we are wont to do as Dalish. Rejected by The People, I lived within the alienage at Kirkwall - amongst the ‘ _flat ears_.’” She says the last part with a derisive scoff. “And it was cold, and it was cruel, and it was uncomfortable, and people stole from me or tried to trick me, but…” Her eyes rise again, “But in that city I saw the best that people could be too.” A smile spreads across her face now. “Can’t very well buy in and let someone muck it all up: Perhaps the Dread Wolf ought to see how wonderful people can be… even in the worst places.”

El’una feels her own smile falter and disguises the expression by putting some more grouse in her mouth; she can’t help but wonder if Hope should have picked this elf to be fascinated by instead.

* * *

 

“Greetings, murderer.” She says, joining Cinaed at the bar; the tavern is familiar - one frequented by herself in Denerim around the time of their first meeting, by her recollection. She lifts her skirts slightly and slides onto a worn barstool before letting the fabric slip from her fingers with a familiar jingle-jangle.

“You’ve gotten good at some pretty fucked up shit, little lady.” Her cutpurse grunts, glancing sideways at her as he swallows most of the ale in his mug. “Shouldn’t be wanderin’ around in other people’s dreams; unnatural business, that.” Despite the scolding, he waves at the barmaid and she begins pouring an ale for El’una.

“Oh? And you’re so adept in the rules of dreams that you are completely certain you’re dreaming at all?” El’una asks, tilting her head in thanks at the barmaid when she sets the ale before her. She takes a long drink, enjoying the hoppy richness of the beverage as it slides over her tongue and down her throat.

“Course I’m dreaming.” Cinaed snaps gently, lifting a thick, grimy finger and pointing across the tavern. “All the fuckin’ serving maids are topless, aren’t they? Can’t remember the last time I saw that at The Griffin’s Nest.”

El’una looks to where Cinaed points and sure enough, every woman clad in an apron and bearing a tray is not bearing a top of any sort; they carry on business as if nothing were out of place, and none of the other patrons seem to notice either.

Rolling her eyes, El’una glances back to Cinaed and says, “Mercy be that I’m not a barmaid.”

“Who says that matters?” The cutthroat grins lasciviously, a tattered eyebrow lifting as he raises his mug to drink again.

“You wouldn’t.” El’una protests darkly, though the threat in her words is somewhat culled by the self-conscious lifting of her arms over her chest.

“Course I fuckin’ wouldn’t.” Cinaed rumbles. “Now lower your arms - you know better than to put yourself in such an awkward and open position in a place like this - you’re practically askin’ for a knifin’ to the kidney.”

“You’d best not be telling me that to trick me, ser.” She challenges, lowering her arms despite her words. “If I find out that you’re being false, I’ll turn this into a nightmare before you can count the nipples in the room.”

He laughs now, aged eyes crinkling at the corners as his scarred face splits into a wide smile: She always did reckon Cinaed was a lot more terrifying when he smiled.

“You know me better than that, little lady. I may be a murderer, but I’m no outright letch.”

Smiling, she knows this to be true; she had in fact once witnessed Cinaed casually break the arms of a man trying to rape a woman behind the tavern. He then shoved a sword into the man’s destroyed arms and challenged him formally to a fight. “You look proper ready to go now son - let’s have it!” He had said, clapping the white-faced rapist on the shoulder with such force that he nearly collapsed then and there.

The man with the broken arms obviously stood no chance due to his handicap, and his blood stained the alley red: Cinaed had no patience for that sort of thing in waking, but if he wanted to dream of topless women, it was certainly his prerogative - dreams were harmless things for people like him.

“All things considered, It’s good to see your face again.” El’una says, resting her elbows on the bar before them in a familiar and comfortable stance. Cinaed only grunts in agreement, and they both stare forward, quietly drinking for a time. “You know, I sent out dozens out scouts to recruit you to the Inquisition.”

Drinking deeply again and waving to the barmaid for another round, Cinaed says, “Yup. Killed every single one of ‘em.”

“Figured.”

“Figured.” Cinaed repeats facetiously. “What were you playin’ at trying to get me to join anyway? No room in an organization like that for someone of my ilk.”

“In all fairness, you were the one who led a guerilla force of Ferelden deserters against the civilian nobility of Orlais - you literally kicked two hornet nests with your actions.” El’una points out. “You wouldn’t have been necessarily _liked_ in the Inquisition, but you could’ve done something good for the world.” She takes a drink now too. “Besides, if you had any idea of some of the folks that ran with the Inquisition… your own mottled history pales in comparison to some.”

“Good thing then I wasn’t on the hunt for a fuckin’ support group, eh?” Cinaed growls in a tone that would make most people sitting in El’una’s seat decide to vacate and choose a different place on the opposite end of the bar where they would dutifully avoid eye contact with the hulking Ferelden for the remainder of the night, and jump every time one of his ham-fists hit the bar. El’una on the other hand, barely registers the frightening rumble, and instead inches her barstool closer to his.

“No point arguing about it now; the past has passed.” She mentions, holding her own mug out to his. “I’m only glad that for all of it, you showed up when you did: My life has become an odd construct of lives who I’ve known for too short a time.”

He taps the rim of his mug against her own and says, “Aye - I heard about your clan. My condolences and whatnot… ne’er knew ‘em, but I know it hurts to lose your entire past in one fell swoop.”

“Thank you, Cinaed.” She says softly, and they drink to each other, and El’una watches the topless barmaids wandering around the tavern. “Why did you come when Leliana sent you the crow?” She asks eventually. It is a question that has been nagging her since it dawned on her that both Cinaed and Pinky were present: They were indeed friends, yes, but by no means were they indebted to her in any way, nor could they be described as lifelong acquaintances: Cinaed and Pinky were more the sort that made a brief appearance in a person’s timeline, lingering shortly, but leaving a long-lasting and unforgettable impression - fond memories to look back on and treasure, but impermanent and fleeting as the sunrise.

She has no idea what Cinaed’s favourite colour is, nor does she know what Pinky’s fondest childhood memory was - these men are near strangers whose only anchoring to herself is a few shared experiences mostly consisting of chatting around a bar for a few weeks many years ago.

Uncomfortable with the thought, she begins to wonder if all of these sudden new ‘allies’ hadn’t been blackmailed or threatened into aiding her.

“Elves.” Cinaed grunts solemnly. “Shortly after that cockup at the Winter Palace with the Divine and the Qun and all that other bullshit about ancient elven gods, sure as shit the slums in Lydes started clearin’ out. I’ve slogged around in Orlais for long enough: I know that elves get treated even more shite there than they do in Ferelden - fuck it - I was kippin’ in the city when Celene burned Halamshiral. I was there for it all; the screaming, the fire, the black smoke that sure as all fuck wasn’t comin’ from burnin’ wood.” He pauses to wet his throat with another swig of ale. “Elves don’t have it good in that country, no matter what that overstuffed peacock would have you think. But I’ve never seen them up and leave: Too dangerous you see. So when they _did_ start up and leavin’, I up and left too - hit Verchiel next; same thing: Nearly abandoned alienages. Slums without a body in sight. Quiet.

“I decided to double back and head to Halamshiral: Celene may have decimated the elven population years ago, but there has been re-growth in parts of the city mostly I’m sure to keep an eye on the throne and the goings-on of the empire - one would think naturally there’d be a load of elves there.” He drinks more, wrinkles his nose, wipes his mouth with the back of his massive forearm, sighs and says, “Nope. Alienage was a fuckin’ ghost-town. The only elves left behind were the old, infirm, or obvious plants left by that handmaiden of the empress.”

Despite being within a dream, El’una feels a distinct shudder run up her spine at this information.

“Have you any idea where they went?” She asks quietly, as if her words may be overheard.

“Not a fuckin’ clue.” Cinaed admits. “One day they were there, the next, they packed up all their shit and vanished into the wilds. I’d put money on The Dales myself, but there isn’t no right way of knowin’ right?” He snags a drink from a passing tray and plonks it down in front of El’una. “I’d heard rumours of what happened at that ‘Exalted Council’ of yours - word of an inevitable Qunari threat. What really gave me pause upon discoverin’ that half the elves on the continent had up and vanished, were the rumours of elven involvement in that whole mess.” He drains his ale, slams the mug on the bar and bellows, “Whiskey!” At the barmaid before continuing. “So I found my way to the Imperium: I figured it’d be a good place to try and lop off two dragon’s heads - If war is comin’ I wanna be here when it starts. Especially if it starts with the fuckin’ Qunari.”

“And the elves?” El’una asks, noting that he had failed to mention his stake in all of that.

“Look, they’re your gods not mine.” Cinaed says, measuring a thimble of whiskey each for himself and El’una. “I haven’t any idea what’s going on; I heard the rumours out of the Winter Palace, but I seen with my own eyes enough to know that something dangerous is brewin’ with the elves.”

They raise their thimbles and down their whiskey. Cinaed says, “Who the fuck was Solas anyway?”

“Some idiot.” El’una answers quickly, attempting to keep her tone and body language impartial.

“Little lady.” Cinaed growls sternly.

“From my understanding, you lot are tasked with getting me to the other side of the Tevinter coast from here, where I am to be left to carry out what I must - what matter is it to you?” She says defensively, pouring them both another whiskey out of pure spite; she knows that in Waking Cinaed does not indulge in spirits other than ale.

“You’ve seen what I can do to a man.” He mutters, leaning close to her and bathing her face in the scent of whiskey and sweat. “Old, young - wealthy, poor, pious, sinner; good and evil: It’s all the same to me, little lady - they all bleed red. They say he’s a god.” He hisses. “I cannot help but wonder what colour he bleeds - what I could do to a man like _him_.”

El’una glances coquettishly at Cinaed from under her brows, a wry little smile twisting her face. “Come now, Cinaed.” She murmurs; a small child reasoning with a lion. “There is no need for such theatrics, nor any call to go chasing after an ancient elf, sword held aloft.”

“He took your arm.”

Her smile wavers, and she cannot help but feel like this is but one more instance where she must dissuade her friend from fighting another idiot.

“I got a new one.” She points out fairly.

“He was your lover.”

“‘Was’ being the keyword.” She mentions.

“El’una.” Cinaed grinds out.

“ _Cinaed_.” She retorts. “I always reckoned you liked me because despite the fact that my hands are small and my palms soft and my words always kind, I carried some sort of quiet immensity that you couldn’t help but be impressed by; for all of your murder, violence and uncaring, there has always been something in me that made you take pause; a quiet and silent threat - the idea that I know exactly what I am.” She whispers now. “I am old. I am angry. I am unafraid to do what must be done, and if anyone is to discover what colour of blood an ancient elvhen god bleeds… it will be me.” She realizes her fingernails on her right hand are digging into the thick skin of his forearm and she draws away, leaving small crescent-shaped dents behind. “You will help me get to the forest of Arlathan, and then you will leave - you will turn right back around and you will board a ship, and you will go right back to whatever it was you were doing before Leliana sent you that crow. Do you understand? I will not have your blood added to that which is already on my hands.”

“Stubborn fuckin’ elves.” Cinaed scoffs, downing his whiskey with an obstinate creaking of leather. “Just coz you’re dyin’ you reckon you get to call all the shots.”

Taken aback, El’una stares at the cutpurse. “You know?”

Cinaed rolls his muddy eyes and pours another measure of whiskey. “I know.” He states. “Take a good look at yourself, woman! Aside from the rollin’ ‘round on a cave floor and ravin’ like a lunatic, it’s clear to see the bigger problem isn’t in your head. Anyone might look a bit ashen after a dip in the drink and a spot of blood magic, but you.” He shakes his head. “Been ‘round enough places decimated by the city illness to know what _that_ looks like.”

Realizing that her pack surely lays at the bottom of the sea, El’una brings a hand to her mouth. “My things!” She gasps. “I have - had - something to keep you safe. I brought - “

“Yeah that disgusting decoction of yours aye? Funny story - half a day after we pulled you ashore a crow found us with a tiny crate stocked with it. Odd, eh? Note attached was signed off by some Feynriel.” He smirks at El’una then. “Almost as if he knew we’d be needing it.”

Innerly, El’una collapses in a relieved and thankful sigh: Feynriel may not have been able to help her in the Fade - though she doesn’t doubt he tried - but he knew that something bad had befallen her; something that may require replenishment of the potion that would keep those who aided her safe as well.

“We all die.” Cinaed presses on. “Come soon or come late, it’s bound to happen to us all. You’ve made it this far, little lady. Have a hard time believing anything is gonna slow you down.”

Once again, her whiskey is raised to his, and she says. “Never.”

Thimbles kiss, rise, and are tilted back by two friends in The Griffin’s Nest; a place where topless barmaids and simpler times remain for those who might seek them out in the place known as the Fade.


	27. Chapter 27

Just as he had been notably present from the cave in the hours after her waking, it was impossible to overlook that the elf with the lyrium in his skin was missing from the Fade as well.

More than slightly confounded and a little concerned about this, El’una consults briefly with Feynriel before waking, using their shared connection to work out why this individual was so hard to locate in the Fade, and what that might mean.

Ultimately she settles on confronting him the old fashioned way and rises from her bedroll, stepping quietly around the other sleeping forms on the cave floor - Merrill and Cinaed. She claps her hand on Pinky’s shoulder as she meets his eyes and tilts her head: The Qunari has taken watch and judging by the scent of whiskey hanging around him, he had been at it for a few hours already.

Beyond the entrance to the cave, dawn is just beginning to overwhelm the thick darkness of the sky, insistent and pale blue on the horizon. Ever at work, the ocean can be heard rolling and crashing on the cliffs nearby, and the birds are only now just beginning to sing light back into the world.

She encounters the elf as he is emerging from the trees below the cave, that greatsword of his propped over his shoulder as he negotiates the rocky terrain.

He stops when he feels her eyes on her.

El’una opens her mouth to speak, but instead of words, a deep and unpleasantly crackling cough comes out instead. She plants her hands on her hips in an effort to keep herself upright; this elf doesn't like her, and the last thing she is about to do is exhibit further weakness to him.

Instead of bashing her skull in with the flat side of the sword like she assumes he would most like to do, he instead closes the distance between them and jams a faded red scrap of cloth out towards her as she wheezes and spits out blood.

“Would that the city illness meant a quick death...” She jokes with a voice that is more akin to a death-rattle, accepting the rag and wiping her face clean of sweat and blood, meanwhile knowing full well who this rag belonged to at one time - she had used the very same scrap of cloth to earn Feynriel’s trust and allegiance.

The coughing continues for a lot longer than it used to; it hurts more to breathe than it ever had, and despite a good sleep, she feels as if she has not slept in days. It dawns on her that her time is bound to come to an end soon.

She does not externalize this understanding, but instead holds the rag out to the elf, passing her hand over it as she does so and making it clean again. The gesture does little more than cause the elf’s frown to deepen further, but he _does_ accept the item from her, which El’una figures is better than nothing.

“Are you shy or something?” She asks finally, straightening to her full height once more. “Or is it that you’re just utterly repulsed by everything I am?” Her voice is still caught somewhere between a wheeze and a harsh whisper, but there is something about this fact that lends her words an even more foreboding quality. “You were a slave, weren’t you? A pet to some deranged magister based on the markings in your skin - an experiment.”

The elf does not answer. He only sheathes the massive sword and sizes El’una up, his furious green eyes rising to her challenge as he wordlessly rolls his broad shoulders and taps the toes of his left foot against the stone.

Were she a lesser woman with much more to lose, El’una might find herself legitimately intimidated by this, but there are other far more important things on her mind that held little time for such considerations.

“I was warned of you, _Fenris_.” She says, placing deliberation into the syllables of his name. “Warned by something much larger than you or I.”

“Are you sure this thing is not still inside you?” He asks, speaking for the first time.

“Without a shadow of a doubt.” She retorts quietly. “You on the other hand… can’t be sure if your eyes aren’t the only ones I’m looking into at the moment, can I?”

“Perhaps you are not fully healed; you continue to speak like a madwoman.” Fenris responds in kind, a firm set in his jaw.

She takes a step to the side, circling him like a beast preparing to pounce. The birds are fully awake now, their constant burble filling in the tense silence between them.

“Why can I not find you in dreams?” She finally demands.

He keeps his shoulders square to her own, but does not move from his place. “Have you considered that some people may not like mages poking around in their minds and rifling through their contents like pages of a book?” He sneers.

“You are no mage.” She observes. “How might one such as you come to learn such secrets?”

“I am not sent here to betray you, if that’s what you’re asking.” Fenris says. “I came at the behest of your spymaster, same as everyone else.”

El’una pauses and lifts her left hand, idly examining the morbid and black-nailed wreck of a limb. “Then why do I feel as though there is more happening here than meets the eye?”

“Because after so many years of leading an organization, the inevitable strain and paranoia has finally twisted your mind to a point where you think there are shadows everywhere.” He hisses through clenched teeth.

“Funny,” El’una says. “That sounds like something _he_ would say.”

She has been carefully judging his stance and his distribution of weight over the uneven ground during this conversation, and uses it to her advantage when instead of levelling a spell at him, she takes him down the old fashioned way.

Springing from her place, she launches herself through the air, hooking her arm around his throat as she flies by, dragging them both to the sharp ground that shudders and gives way beneath them.

They are rolling, sliding, falling down and down as stones pummel them and scree cuts them.

When she comes to a rest, Fenris has slipped from her hold, and as she scrambles to her feet while scanning for him through the thick dust that hangs around them, she draws her sword from her hip, closing the weapon into both hands and raising it as she listens for any sign of her target.

There is a great _woosh_ as the air behind her is cut, and El’una pivots on the spot, effortlessly shifting her weight in order to turn and block the hefty downward swing aimed for her: Average of height and build for an elf, the immensity of force behind the swing betrays Fenris’ true strength, and El’una pushes up into the brutal strike, leveraging the blow and popping the great silverite blade up into empty space. She still cannot see, but goes for it anyway, seizing the opportunity and landing a solid kick through the dust.

Her bare foot connects with leather, and there as an “ _oof!_ ” As Fenris is shoved away: She has bought herself some space, but with a blade as long as the one he carries, fighting in a dust cloud could only end badly for her.

She lowers herself and springs forward again, ignoring the deep scrapes left in her shoulders as she rolls deftly over loose stone, landing in a low crouch each time before rolling again until she feels wet grass under her palms and she knows herself to be free from the dust.

She is about to rise, coughing, but keeping her face to the enemy, when she is thrown from her feet by a dark figure that shoots from the miasma, colliding with her with the force of a dragon’s tail.

Fenris snarls as his momentum on top of her rolls them both, and El’una manages to land a good blow on his chin with the pommel of her sword as they tumble once again.

Fucking hills.

When motion ceases once again, El’una finds her footing on sand; they are on the beach.

Rising to her feet, she looks up to see that Fenris is also on his own a few yards away.

“I warned him what I would do to the next spy that interferes with me!” She calls out, flexing her fingers against the grip of her sword and feeling the sandy grit that lingers there. Blood rushes in her ears as she raises her blade aloft once more in a position that could easily move from block to parry depending on what he tried to hit her with first.

“It is not as simple as you think!” He counters, hoisting his own blade, but making no move to attack.

Very well, she decides. So be it.

Wet sand is kicked up in clods that seem to move slowly around her as her feet cut paths in the beach and she closes the space between them, feinting left as he raises his sword to block the implied jab.  She shifts her weight right at the last moment and turns, passing her sword to her right hand as she slides her left arm up along his until their shoulder joints kiss. Her fingers find his forearm as she continues to turn, and her force rips his left fingers away from the grip on his sword. She completes the turn, whirling around and digging her toes into the sand, she braces her legs and core, snapping to a halt.

The dull _pop_ she has been waiting to hear fills the air, and she follows through with what momentum remains, driving Fenris to the sandy ground.

He roars like a caged animal as his sword slips from the hand that rises to grip at his dislocated shoulder.

Hating herself for it, El’una ignores how pained his cries sound, and instead keeps the edge of her sword pressed to his throat as she straddles the writhing elf and begins rifling through his pockets and pouches. Her fingers eventually find an amulet tucked into the breast pocket of his armour - it is old and made of stone so worn that whatever emblem or sigil on it is nearly worn away, though El’una has seen Falon’Din’s likeness more than enough to recognize it at a glance.

“This! Where did you get this?!” She demands, holding up the amulet and breathing heavily, strings of blood falling from her mouth onto the sand around the elf’s head. When his answer is only a pained moan, El’una stabs the sword into the sand next to them and seizes him by the shoulders, slamming him against the ground. “Where?!” She rages.

“Fen’Harel!” Fenris groans.

“I knew you were his spy!” El’una snaps, fingers grasping for her sword once more. She finds the hilt, and is about to draw it from the sand when she feels Fenris wrap his own fingers around her the forearm that is still holding him fast.

“Not… not his spy.” He grinds out, his pupils mere pinpricks against a backdrop of green. “ _Your_ spy.”

She feels her heart skip a beat.

“What?”

“I’m your in.” He pants. “I’m your way into the forest.”

Feeling like she might be sick, El’una scrambles off of the elf beneath her.

“Oh my… oh. I… fuck. Oh fuck.” She rambles, discarding the sword and moving her quaking hands to Fenris’ injured shoulder. As she begins to thread a steady stream of healing magic through him, she hears a shout up on the cliff and looks up to see Cinaed, Merrill and Pinky standing above, likely drawn by the commotion.

“Help us!” El’una screams, and without question, her companions take foot and are running down the trail towards the beach where El’una Lavellan tries to make right yet one more mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually really like Fenris, I promise.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back!
> 
> This took awhile. Over a month kind of thing. 
> 
> I got stuck, and then my grandad passed away, and then another really horrible thing happened to me that I'm really trying to work through, and honestly I haven't had the emotional energy to polish this off... 
> 
> Luckily I already wrote a BIG chunk of the next part in the series, so we're good. 
> 
> I love you. Thank you. 
> 
> I'm so tired. 
> 
> <3

“Thought I’d get to see you for a little longer ‘an this.” 

“Time is a luxury at the best of times, even more so when death is inevitable.”

“Death is inevitable for everyone, little lady - you’re not so important.” 

El’una feels the corners of her mouth rise, and she wrings out the shirt in her hands. “You know what I mean.” 

“Aye,” Her cutpurse agrees, scuffed boots entering her periphery as he steps onto the same granite slab she kneels on as she goes about washing her clothes. “What’s all this then?” He asks, surely glowering at the mass of clothing spread all about El’una to dry in the sun. 

“I was filthy.” El’una answers curtly. “Not about to wash myself clean and then scramble back into dirty clothing, am I?” 

“You’re not wearing this particular clothing when we leave this place.” Cinaed points out. “I’ve been debriefed on the little plan you and that twat with the greatsword hatched.” 

“Debriefed.” El’una repeats, the smile on her face growing. “When you say things like that, you almost sound like a soldier again, Cinaed.” 

“An’ when you make smarmy comments like that you sound like a stubborn ass knife-ear who keeps too many secrets.” 

“Always did reckon Solas and I made a perfect match.” El’una sighs with mock wistfulness, though she does rather savagely twist the water from the sash in her hands before continuing. “You call me knife-ear as if it’s an insult that means something to me.” She mumbles. 

“In all fairness, a bloke could take his eye out on one of those things if he weren’t careful,” Cinaed chuckles.

“Fuck you.”

He laughs raspingly for a few more moments before saying, “In all seriousness, little lady; what are you doin’ with all this?” 

“One must be buried in something they found to be fashionable and comfortable in life.” She points out conversationally. 

“You don’t reckon you’ll be makin’ it back, eh?” Cinaed voices, his voice now solemn. 

“I don’t.” El’una confirms. “Sure as the sun rises, I will not be venturing across the sea with a heartbeat in my breast.” 

“You scared?” 

“I used to be.” El’una admits, thinking back to standing on a balcony in Nevarra and coming to the realization of what was happening to her. “There was sorrow, and fear, and loneliness, and anger. But now those things have all given way to this… nothingness that I feel. I haven’t felt anything in a long time - perhaps that’s what makes me so dangerous. Perhaps that’s why it’s fitting that my time is almost nigh.” She rocks back on her knees and spreads the sash out flat over the bolder, gesturing wordlessly for Cinaed to move his feet. “Dinan’shiral, Solas called it - the journey of death. Depending on how you want to interpret such a phrase, it could be argued that we are all of us on the dinan’shiral, as all paths in life eventually converge to meet death. On the other hand, if we’re looking at it from a poetic and maudlin sense - which I’m sure is what Solas intended - I suppose it could be said that the differences between he and I have nearly vanished completely: I embark to this place, fully knowing it is my final journey and that death almost certainly awaits me there, and yet I am not inclined to find an alternative or try and alter that which is imminent, because there is simply not enough left to care of what happens to me. Mages and empresses and armies aren’t dangerous things… being unable to feel is.” The rough bottoms of her feet scrape the stone softly as she plants her palms on the boulder and rises to her feet, noticeably out of breath as she straightens and looks Cinaed straight in the eyes. “I am not afraid to die; I only am afraid for what should happen if our last meeting is a failure. I came here to have his agents removed from Tevinter. I realize now that I must accomplish so much more than that. I always said I would work till my dying day - up to my dying breath - to have him see reason. I see now that that is a prophecy which will be self-fulfilled.” 

Mud coloured eyes gaze intently into her own, and within the silence exists an understanding and unspoken sense of loss between the pair of friends. Every moment from El’una’s very first greeting, to their first drink together, to the number of times she dissuaded some drunk fool from fighting him, to the last time they drank in dreams plays in his mind, and although Cinaed is an old boot too old and cold for all of that magic bullshit, he most definitely cannot argue that he feels magic now. 

Not that sort of magic though. 

“Fuck me, you’re dramatic.” He turns his head to the side and spits. “But you ain’t wrong about all that feeling shit. World’ll be a poorer place without you, little lady.” 

She smiles then; a mischievous and cunning twist of the lips that is so very unforgettable in his mind’s eye. She grasps one of his calloused and filthy hands with her own clean ones. 

“I ain’t scared.” She whispers peevishly.

* * *

 

I wasn’t lying when I told Cinaed that I’m not scared anymore. If anyone in this strange world understands who I am, and why I think the way I do… it’d be him. 

Doesn’t make the goodbye any easier though. 

Come to think of it, I’m not really sure I’ve ever experienced a simple goodbye. Simple goodbyes seem like the worst sort actually - they’re the kind where the goodbye itself is a casual wave to a friend as they leave the room, or an uncomplicated farewell made to a loved one in passing. But then something happens, and you realize that that simple goodbye was in fact the last. 

Everything that should have, and could have been said hangs in the permanence of that overlooked moment till the end of time, and it really, really is the simple goodbye that robs us of so much. 

The elf who I nearly tore apart not so long ago is clearing his throat next to me now; no doubt in an effort to get my attention. 

I give it to him.

To be fair I’m rather surprised he consents to mince words with me at all, given that we both know I was a moment away from pulling his head off on that beach. Things are getting away from me… people like this one are suffering for it. 

I’m only half-listening as he reaffirms the plan of action - there’s no need really. We spoke of it at length the night before as we sat by the fire and I healed his shoulder properly: Using the crossroads within the eluvian, we will enter Solas’ camp. Using my skill with the glamour, I’m to take the appearance of an unassuming and fresh recruit to the cause and accompany him. He and his own agents will lay in wait and I will… 

… I will. 

  
  


I will. 

  
  
  
  
  



	29. Chapter 29

“Do not dress in those rags for me: I know that you are not poor.”

The glamour wavers and then dissolves completely.

“Solas - “ She begins, well aware of the lack of time on her side.

“Vhenan.” He interrupts, though his voice is authentic as it always has been. He looks sad, and it occurs to her that she cannot actually recall what his smile looks like - the broad, over-exaggerated expression that would split his face when she uttered a joke that he found hilarious, or when someone else caught him off guard with some unheard of idea; sleepy smiles that spread lazily on sleepy lips in the early morning when she stirred him awake.

She remembers the idea of them, but she cannot remember _them._

Scrambling for words she stands in the middle of a ruin - for what god it belonged to she cares no more. She only cares that she is caught caught red-handed in her attempt at tricking the god of trickery. It’s a situation that seems almost woefully ironic, but she cannot bring herself to laugh knowing what it took to get here.

Despite this, there are so many things to say, so many ways she had dreamt of this conversation happening: Not one of them started like this.

Her mouth opens and closes as once again words hang on the realization that this is it: This is the last time she will ever see his face and hear his voice and the last time they will share a common space together and...

For the third time, words fail her when it occurs to her that instead of being relieved to see that him, she is overwhelmed with fury.

Fury for having to be a part of this at all. Fury for the days and weeks after he left on the shore of a pond in Crestwood, and her bare toes dug into the sandy earth and her knees shook as she struggled to hold her head aloft and defiant as he walked away from her.

Fury for the brutal, shattering silence that lingered in the days that followed.

Fury for the second time he destroyed her and so tidily summed up his plans to restore an ancient world - fury for the promise that he would always love her - fury that he told her all of this and took her arm and her agency.

Those things have long been the source of the fury that has driven her to the fury that she carries now; the steward in Nevarra who became a nameless casualty in this game, the entanglement of a kind and decent man like Feynriel in all of this, Dorian’s compromise… the indignation that she has suffered up to this point; the pain, the relentless diligence and shameless torment she has willingly put herself through just to be where she stands now.

She demanded answers and justification from him once, so many years ago. She doesn’t have time for such things now.

Her fingers slip from the humble lie in her fingers, and it clatters with a hollow sounding echo to the floor.

“I told you to leave.” She responds finally, not at all cajoled by the sight of his face and his furs. She glares at familiar eyes, caring little that they are the ones that could petrify her with a glance if he willed it.

Marvelling at the fact that despite her steady insistence over the past months that she would not seek to confront him, she stands across the room from him now, feeling quite the opposite as she feels the Fade playing around her fingers: At the moment, she is reminded of a broken dream and a silver blade and the shadow of Vitriol begging her to do what is right.

“The illusion was impressive.” He compliments her earnestly, but in doing so, ignores her statement. He clasps his hands behind his back, and regards her: She despises the very real fact that nothing has changed about the way he speaks to her. They might as well be standing ankle deep in the snow at Haven, discussing  a rather marvelous curse she had laid on a detachment of red templars the day before. “I am unsurprised to see your aptitude for knowledge hasn’t waned.” He smiles so sadly at her then, and inner resentment  pitches once more; she feels tiny bursts of flame explode into being around her hands. She shakes them by her sides, and only smoke remains. Steeling herself, she takes confident step forward.

“You know me. I can’t stand to be bored.” She replies curtly.

Solas sighs at the quip: He turns and begins to pace the dias. “What would you have of me, El’una?” He asks joylessly.

Again, his voice alone raises her ire and she steps forward once more. “Where to begin?” She snarls. “I’d have you heed my warning and take your people from this place: Whether you see it as such or not, the Imperium is very much a threat to those who follow you. Second, I would have you listen to me instead of speaking down to me like I am an ignorant child.” She takes another step forward. “Thirdly, I would have you not destroy thousands of lives. As an addendum to item number three, I’d also have you cease playing around with things that you don’t understand. Which topic would you like to cover first? Don’t be shy, _vhenan_.” The endearment seeps from her lips like venom. She is rising up the stairs of the dias now, closing in on him aggressively.

He sizes her up. His eyes wander her form and come to rest on her left arm.

“I see the Magesterium hasn’t failed to pass on that which it is so proud of to you.” He remarks. “It is a failure: It won’t last.” She flinches when he reaches down and takes her ice cold left hand in his own; his magic hums with an almost comforting familiarity due to his closeness, though the overall sensation is lost on the dead flesh of the artifice: It never knew Solas. It has no bond to him. She scowls at him as he examines the limb, his thumb sweeping over her palm and fingertips. He looks up at her again after a time. “A decent construct, for something as unwieldy as blood magic. You sacrificed no life to create this limb, however. That is why it is plagued with rot and will eventually cease to function.”

She yanks her hand away. “At such time I will spill my blood anew and create another: As I said; stop treating me like a child. I need an arm. Considering mine was robbed from me, this one will have to suffice. You would be utterly impressed if you had any idea of what I went through to obtain it.”

“I have always understood your anger, but I will never understand your insistence on living it out. Blood magic, vhenan? I wonder when you will tire of drawing your own blood and move on to other sources.” He seems genuinely concerned; something that El’una had not expected.

“Once again, there was a call for me to learn to cope with that which has befallen me, and I am answering that call as best I can.” She places her hands on her hips and stares across the temple at the rubble and vines and overgrowth that have claimed this place since her world began.

“You may yet live… the Veil coming down,” He tells her in the tone of a valued confidant. “It is not a death sentence to all. With skill and spirit such as yours there is a chance you might survive.” She feels his fingers ghost against her own and she pushes back with a cautionary burst of magic that unfurls across the room with a dull boom, stirring up dust and causing leaves to quiver.

“Don’t.” She warns. “What sort of consolation is that meant to be, Solas?” She whispers, turning now to face the smooth reflective surface of the Eluvian at the top of the dias. “You can’t possibly think that I would be satisfied with that outcome. You’re right: I myself am confident that I would be able to adapt to your new vision of the world: I have developed an understanding of magic that few possess. I would survive. I don’t act out of fear for myself. I act out of a duty to protect those who would be unable to adapt: People like Bull and Cassandra and Cullen. Entire villages and settlements of people who have never seen the full potential of magic, but deserve to live regardless.” She lifts a hand and her reflection toys with a stream of fire that dances and weaves between her fingers. “I will not see them die needlessly for a crime that they did not commit; for a mistake that was not theirs, or a choice that they had no say in.” She looks past her reflection in the eluvian and sees him standing behind her and she hopes with all her might that he is listening to what she is saying.

“You have lived for a very long time, Solas.” She says, “You outdo me in conscious years, of course, but it occurs to me that you failed to consider something vastly important about me - about the rest of this world - despite your years.” She turns from the eluvian and closes her fingers around the fire in her hand, removing the warmth that briefly existed in the cold ruin. She faces him with a weary smile of her own, now. “Between the two of us, I am the only one who has existed in this world as it is for longer than a decade. Between the two of us, _you_ are the child. Between two of us, _you_ are the one who is playing with things far beyond your scope of knowledge or experience. You admitted it yourself: This is not the world you left behind. It is the one you created and I should think that if you want to succeed in your endeavour, you may be inclined to listen to someone who has been here for awhile.”

He sighs heavily; his right arm twitches but does not complete the movement.

“To what end? This world is wrought with pain and corruption and darkness: This world is a nightmare. I would remake things so that the world might be free once more; where demons do not exist and where magic is no longer something to be feared.”

“I’ve cracked your jar, Solas. Alone. I sidestepped your creation and reached beyond it in order to make it my own. You and I both know that boiling this world down to such black and white terms is a betrayal to yourself.”

“An excellent job of it too; the jar.” He remarks, smiling for the first time. “In a short time you have achieved power that even I had thought unattainable, given the state of things.”

“Because I understand this world! You need to listen to me!” She pleads, her voice rising again. “Just as the elvhenan are your people, the people of this world are mine and I care for them with the same level of dedication as you. I don’t care if they’re elves or dwarves or humans or qunari; they have just as much right to live as you!” The still air of the ruin prickles and undulates around her now. “They are here _now._ ”

He stares at her without any trace of emotion, save for a sad turn of his lips: An expression that sets fire to her soul: Perhaps he is at a loss for words, but he has had so, so much time to think of them.

“You’re just like them!” She declares, and Solas effortlessly raises a barrier  that diffuses the burst of magic she pelts at him. Her furor is not yet spent by his cool defense and she pulls her hands through the air and an inferno whips around them. “You locked them away, you tricked them into a prison for their crimes!” Hot air buffets the stone ruins with a ferocity that withers and burns the greenery that has crept into the place. “You would have freedom for _elvhenan_ and in doing so wrest it from the hands of thousands more!” Her teeth are bared in a snarl and her hand dances through the air, prepared to weave more destruction into existence. “I know what it is you fear, Dread Wolf and if you will not heed my words -  mark them: You _will_ die alone!”

She is knocked off her feet by Solas’ own burst of magic. It is a rebuff clearly meant to dissuade rather than harm, but nonetheless, the flames in the room are instantly dampened and she is sent flying across the dias, sliding to a stop just before the stairs. She pushes herself off of the ground and begins to rise but caves in on herself at a sharp twinge of pain and a burning sensation in her chest.

She reasons with herself, forcing a long, rattling breath into her lungs. Keep it together just a little longer...

He has taken advantage of her recovery and opened the eluvian.

“You are not running away from me. Not again.” She pledges, rising to her feet, shoulders shaking with a combination of sobs and tamped down coughing. She wheezes, her voice frayed as she reaches out to him, forcing her eyes to remain forward and focused on him instead of rolling back into her head. “You don’t have to leave. You don’t have to -” Her sentiment is cut short when the irritation in her lungs becomes too much and the air within them is driven out in a shuddering cough. Her abdominal muscles protest against the tension she exerts on them in order to keep herself upright. Her eyes widen as she gasps for air but hears only a whistling sound as her body fails to retrieve what it needs. The ruin around her seems to waver and fade around her, but she can see that Solas has turned his back on the eluvian and is now facing the source of the horrible sounds filling the cavernous space.

She coughs deeply one last time; a wet, growling utterance that is accompanied by a good quantity of blood. It flies from her lips in strings and casts its red arms on the gray stone floor. It reaches towards Solas like she had done herself not moments earlier.

It is silent in the ruin for the first time.

He stares at her, then at the red on the floor that is still dripping from her chin.

Her eyes are laden with tears and her knees finally give out and the ground rushes up to meet them. She stares up at him wordlessly and continues to draw faint breaths through her bloodied mouth. Her brows knit together in a silent expression of shame and a raw sob eventually makes its way into the still air.

Solas moves away from the eluvian, sorrow etching his face as he closes the distance between them. In another act of defiance she spits out the remainder of the blood that has pooled in her mouth and wipes her face with the back of her arm.

“Vhenan…” He whispers brokenly, bending at the knees to be at her level as he did the last time she had collapsed before him in unbearable, fatal pain.

“Yes, Solas?” She responds, her voice naught but a deep hiss. Her words are trailed by yet another scraping stream of coughs.

He tilts her chin up with the gentlest touch of his fingertips, and she can hardly bear to see the sadness that dwells in his dark eyes as he observes the blood and the thin sheen of sweat that cover her.

“You are dying.” He observes, and for all the anger inside of her, her heart aches at the waver in his voice as he comes to the realization she has worked tirelessly to hide from him for so long.

“Wrong again, Strange Solas.” She rasps, her lips twisting into a bloody smile. “I am already dead. I’m right here… if you just… wake… up…”

He is alone in the dias.

Leaves stand still and unburned, and the ground is as broken as it had been before.

It was not real.

She is not dying.

It was a nightmare; a slip in the Fade that rendered his worst fancy to truthful dread.

But…

He glances at the door, and all that lays beyond it. Nothing but sealed calm and placid age lays in the stone.

But what if?

What _if_?

The distance closed is distance closed quickly, and the door bursts open with but a gesture.

Darkness is the sole occupant of the hall beyond.

A voice whispers like wind from the black.

“ _Loose…_ ”

Fletching whips the air like frenzied birds in only a brief second, and he falls; a wolf caught in a trap.

There are feet - he can see them now - dimly lit by the wavering light of the eluvian. But more importantly there is a hand; it is wet and clamped against the side of his face. He feels hot breath on his face and hears an ungodly whistling; a heavy panting, and he drags himself towards it despite his injuries.

“Slow arrows do not win all, Dread Wolf,”

The hand turns colder than it ever had been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to get it over with. 
> 
> I actually started this fic with this particular chapter... and then reworked this chapter many times. And built an entire series out of it. And then reworked this chapter many times....
> 
> But it's time to move on to what comes next. 
> 
> Because oh man... what comes next is a doozy.


	30. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here... have an epilogue.

Her saviour’s eyes land pityingly on her; strange, rich hazel orbs that sparkle strangely - even for an elf. “A battlefield is an odd place for a scholar to be.” The woman observes.  “You are no warrior.”

“That what you think, is it?” Raella counters, shifting on her feet and jamming her kitchen knife back into her belt, “You assume that just because I prefer learning to bloodshed that I would shy away from danger when it is thrust in my face?” She takes a step forward and begins circling this strange woman who had appeared from seemingly nowhere amidst a field of darkspawn: An out of place beacon in a dark place with a dark sky. She is clothed strangely; trim, comfortable leathers in a cut not commonly seen on women adorn her form and it strikes Raella as curious that while she bears a silverite blade at her hip, she carries no staff: She is quite sure she saw her topple a cottage onto a group of darkspawn minutes earlier with little more than a wave of her hand. “Have you  _ seen _ the world lately?” She asks.

The elven woman crouches to the trampled ground and picks up Raella’s stack of letters.

“Of course.” She says in that strange voice of hers, stepping forward and holding the tied stack out to her. “We all must do what is necessary in order to survive.” Her eyes flick up to meet her own when Raella grasps the sacred letters and pulls them from the giver’s hand. “You are very much a survivor.”

Unbidden, Raella feels the muscles along her spine tense in preparation for a shiver: Something about this elf puts her at unease - she is too calm and composed for someone who had just stumbled into a violent slaughter and nearly singlehandedly decimated the enemy. She studies the woman’s face now that she is closer in the dim light: pale skin, no Dalish markings, long, dark hair… and those eyes. Those strange, strange eyes. She feels her own eyes narrow as she is pulled into the deepness of them; it is almost as though within their darkest depths there lives something not unlike the promise of dust in sunbeams on autumn afternoons: Quiet. Ancient. Immutable. And for all of that… something familiar.

Her memory takes her back to a time many years ago: A crisp spring day in Redcliffe during a time when she could often be found sitting on a bench near the town fountain, nose buried deep in a book about celestial bodies. There might have been a woman on a roan mare; she was followed by three other mounted companions, though their faces elude Raella now. 

The elf on horseback, however: She had most certainly met Raella’s eyes as she tossed her head to laugh at a jest one of her fellow travellers made, and Raella knew from the telltale heraldry on the mount’s tack who this group was.

Inquisition.

“You’re not -?” She begins, holding the letters close to her heart.

“No.” The elf smiles. 

“I didn’t think so.” Raella says, mind put oddly at ease by the woman’s simple response. 

“A chevalier.” The elf says, eyes landing pointedly on the letters Raella is clutching to her breast like a child. “Why might a woman from Ferelden fight tooth and nail for such letters?” 

Flushing, Raella adjusts her grip on the letters; she can feel sweat from her palms soaking into the parchment. She must have been able to tell from the seal; how else would she have known the letters’ origin? It wasn’t as though she had time to leaf through them when she picked them up from the ground. 

She weaves a mostly made up story in her mind, and begins stammering it out when the elven woman interrupts her with the gentlest and most understanding of  _ ahhh’s _ . 

“A love affair then.” She deduces, wiping her blade on the grass and sheathing it. “One divided by leagues upon leagues of space.” 

“I’ve not… I’ve not heard from him of late. Not since the Razing of the Veil.” Raella admits. “I must find him. He used to send me letters all the time - daily. I’ve not received one in weeks.” Her voice gives way and she closes her eyes in an effort to centre herself. The last letter - short, concise, and treading ever carefully around the invisible boundary between them - had included a remarkable star-chart that her love had claimed to have found in the market in Val Royeaux. _ I thought you might like this _ , said the simple note attached and sealed with a kiss. 

It was beautiful, the star-chart: heavy parchment dyed a deep blue-black and painstakingly hand painted with every known body and constellation visible to the eye. Larger stars and constellations were inlaid with gold leaf, and the sheer amount of detail on the sizeable chart was unfathomable; it could not have been a mere trinket sold at a side-street stall. 

She looks behind her at the torched and toppled remnants of the town she had been staying in; the inn is a smouldering husk and there is no doubt in her mind that her star-chart is too. “He is in danger.” She states, looking back to the elf. 

“I have long been under the impression that chevaliers are fearsome warriors.” The elf notes. “Your beloved likely fares better than you.”

Raella laughs darkly. “And more than like loves every moment of blood he has found.” She admits. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I need to get to him.” 

The elf tilts her head quizzically at her words. “And your husband? How does he fare?”

Raella’s finger finds the golden band on her left hand and she fiddles with it absently: The woman is perceptive. “He thinks that I am dead.” She answers finally. “The world ending really puts matters of the heart into perspective, I’ll have you know.” 

Passive, unreadable, the elf’s odd, ancient eyes study her for a time. 

“So it does.” She agrees eventually, and it seems as though she has had enough of standing around in a decimated town filled with smoke and bodies, for she makes to set off now, her sword-belt rattling against her hip as she strides past Raella. 

“Wait!” She calls out, turning and jogging after the woman, who despite being almost half a foot shorter than her, has already covered an admirable distance. The elf pauses and turns, waiting for Raella to catch up. “You… you have something - some blood on your mouth.” Raella pants: She had something else in mind to say, but the sudden appearance of a thin line of fresh blood dripping from the corner of the elven woman’s mouth derailed her intent.

The elf lifts her gloved left hand and wipes the corner of her mouth with her thumb before surveying the shiny wetness left there with an unmoved expression. She says nothing about it; only flicks her wrist and sends the blood to the ground before looking back to Raella, seemingly uncaring of the drying, red smudge she has spread across her chin.

“You wanted to ask something of me?” She inquires, and although up to this point, the woman has been nothing but calm, and unthreatening, Raella is struck with the sensation that her current situation might be comparable to a sheep asking a wolf for shelter: There is something very, very dangerous about this person, though it is not immediately clear what.

“You’re headed west.” Raella points out. “I’ve nothing else on me but a kitchen knife and I don’t know how to use anything else. The rest of my belongings were burnt with the inn. Does your path take you to Orlais?”

“I admit that I’m not yet certain where my path takes me.” The elf replies stoically. 

“Then let it take you to Orlais.” Raella urges. “If you travel with me; keep me safe so that I might have a hope of finding Findos, I’ll be eternally in your debt.”

The elf does that thing again where she silently appraises her. 

“Your love has not ceased writing to you because he is dead, wounded, or otherwise incapable of doing so.” She says at last. “Your chevalier is a man of the blade primarily, but before all else he is a man of honour: It encompasses his very being. Let there be no shadow of doubt in your mind that the chevalier is indeed taken by you; he longs to see you smile; he dreams to touch your face and bring your shared affection to fruition, but in knowing of your status as a wife, his honour trumps all desire.” A gloved finger points at the letters. “Every morning a quill hovers over blank parchment, ink dripping from its tip due to the shaking of the hand that holds it. Every morning the quill is thrown aside: You have captured the heart of this man who fears nothing: Dozens he has slain in battle; he has overcome insurmountable odds and faced fears that most only see in nightmares yet he has been brought to his knees by his his desire to have something he cannot possess: It is the ultimate paradox: Waylay his sacred honour, or bow to the will of his heart?” Her hand drops to her side. “He has, and always will choose his honour above all else.”

Raella’s vision swims at the end of the elf’s words. She feels her pulse quicken and her cheeks redden further as she absorbs every syllable of unkindness this perfect stranger has just rendered unto her.

“How could you know all of this? Why would you say that?” She manages to whisper, her knees feeling weak: There is an increasing sense that everything the woman says is true, though she is not at all inclined to like it.

“Because only despair awaits you to the west.” The elf answers flatly, as if she had not just completely rended a woman’s heart asunder. “Not to the east, though - the direction you came from.” Almost imperceptibly her face softens and she says, “I do not impart these things to you out of cruelty, but rather in the hope that you will see what kindness lays in the heart of your chevalier- what care he has for the mind he knows to be beautiful: By resisting you, he sets you both free. Take this gift for what it is: It was given of love.”

Her breath hitches, and Raella’s spare hand flies to grip the knife handle at her back. “And from what authority do you claim to know of love, rabbit?!” She sobs.

“None.” The elf says, not frowning or making any indication that she cares at all about the slur hurled at her. “Absolutely none.” With that, she turns away once more and continues on her path, walking eastward from Raella until she is no more than a dark speck on a darker horizon.

He would have come to hate everything that I stand for in time anyway, she decides as she stands alone in a desolate and bloody field, clutching swapped words and tokens of a love that never had much hope to begin with.

As she looks down and wipes the tears from her eyes, a splash of colour on the blackened ground draws her attention.

Where the elven woman’s blood had landed when she flicked it to the earth, a young wildflower now grows.

A forget-me-not.


End file.
